my favourite place was me and you
by kikis2
Summary: Rachel is forced to leave the spotlight and return home to face the people she sold for her dream. Puck/Rachel/Santana.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**:I hate to do more than one story at a time, but I need a little advice._ Pezberry, Puckleberry, or Puckleberry Pez? _

Please read and give me your opinion. That please comes with dessert toppings, so don't be stingy.

}{

_You sold your soul__  
><em>_Like a roamin' vagabond__  
><em>_And I found out you got lost,__  
><em>_But you made your way back home__  
><em>_You went and sold your soul,__  
><em>_An allegiance dead and gone_

_I'm losing touch_

-The Killers_  
><em>

}{

She'd always taken care of her body. She ate right, exercised regularly, worked her muscles hard, but never too hard, because she knew this body was her future. It was her to ticket to bright lights, shiny awards, and that thunderous applause she could never get enough of.

She lets bitter tears run down her cheeks and doesn't wipe them away. She's got the aisle to herself and when the flight attendants walk past she turns her head to the window, not that they'd notice anything beyond her headphones and over-sized sunglasses.

It's actually quite lucky that she's all out of theatrical scenes, all out of dramatic angst. She could have had at least two of the flight attendants and several passengers hovering over her, sympathy pouring from their bodies, but she's all out of energy, too tired to share her emotions; it's probably fate, because she no longer has a stage and there will be no more audiences where she's going.

The plane lands, not even at her destination; Lima is just that cruelly backwards.

The flight attendants try to make her use a wheelchair, but she pulls herself up to her full, unimpressive height and gives them a glance so withering they hesitate before the bravest offers to at least walk her to baggage. She agrees—only because they stress that it's procedure. Rachel truly hates any variation from procedure.

"Dad! Daddy!" She almost forgot how much she loves her fathers' hugs: the way her daddy, Aaron, looks so short and soft until he's squeezing her like he'll never let go and the way Judah, so tall and imposing, touches her tenderly, like she could break at any moment.

Judah asks her how she's been and if she's in any pain and reassures her how glad they are that she's back home, even if it's under such awful circumstances. Aaron just narrows his eyes and asks about doctors and appointments and _how could this possibly happen_? He shakes his head at the horrendously chaotic world and orders Judah to help her back to the car while he waits for "those awful bagboys with no work ethic and no respect for people's property to actually do their job".

She falls asleep on the car ride home and has scarily vivid dreams about things she won't remember when she opens her eyes.

}{

That night she paces endlessly around her girlhood room. Or hobbles, to be more accurate.

She calls Julian for the second time in half an hour.

"I'm coming back immediately and there is nothing you can do to stop me!" she rails, one hand pressed determinedly into her hip.

There's a thump, and she can imagine him pressing his forehead into the wall. "Yes, Rachel, you can come back whenever you want and there's nothing I can do to stop you," he admits tiredly. "But you're not getting on my stage. Or anyone else's. Not until you're clean and healthy and can give me a hundred and ten percent and then more."

His director's voice scares her. She knows there's little in her arsenal that will outmanoeuvre _director_ Julian.

She sniffs, tears pooling in her eyes. "I miss you."

People can hear facial expressions over the phone; it's a proven fact and Rachel knows it.

He sighs and it's not dramatic, just exhausted and pained. "I watch you cry under the spotlight every night, Rach, don't think you can your own way like that. This isn't a punishment. You think your career is going to last long with you limping around on my stage with nothing but Adderall and pig-headedness keeping you upright?"

"Then I'll come back and get better! New York has better doctors and—"

"No," he says with finality. "This isn't a punishment. This is me doing what's best for you, so stop trying to talk me out of it."

There's a long silence. She's never known how to accept defeat gracefully.

"I don't know what to do," she says pathetically.

"Think of it as a holiday. Have fun. Be young. Be young and stupid with people just as young and stupid. And enjoy it, because when you get back you're not getting another break till you retire. Or die."

Rachel's lips quirk. "I'll try."

"Good."

"I love you," she says in parting.

"Margaret just walked in. I'll call you tomorrow."

He hangs up and Rachel falls into her bed.

It's pouring outside. The cold and the wet seem to seep straight through her bones to magnify the other aches.

She rubs at her leg, trying to warm it even through her jeans and the tight black material below that stabilizes her knee.

It would be easy, so easy, to swallow her pain killers with a benzo chaser and spend the rest of the night pleasantly unoccupied.

But she wants to get back to New York, back to the stage, back to the only place she's ever been loved.

She knows she won't get back there unless she's strong.

She grabs her car keys and leaves before the silence leaves her no option.

Judah and Aaron had wanted to sell the car when she left for college, but the thought of saying goodbye to her pretty, little, eco-friendly ride had been too much. She was glad for that now.

The bar was one of those seedy establishments on the outskirts of town where the calendar never moved beyond 1989 and bright light was strictly forbidden, as if to keep patrons from truly seeing their miserable surroundings.

Rachel regrets coming the moment she walks in. The turnout was probably the usual Tuesday night crowd: men over fifty and a few tradesmen whose after-work beers would accidently turn into overnighters and no work tomorrow.

Rachel saunters to the bar, painfully compensating for her limp, and pretends she belongs.

It's sad, but she has nowhere else to go.

She beams meaninglessly at the blond bartender and orders a scotch and diet coke. She doesn't usually drink outside of celebratory champagne, but scotch reminds her of Thursday nights at Julian's penthouse when his wife has her squash match and there's nothing but lazy hours spent watching bad movies.

(It reminds her of the one place where she's closest to being wanted.)

She sips it while leaning on her dark table by the wall. It's sharp and acrid and nothing like the silky brown liquor Julian keeps in crystal decanters.

She finishes it anyway.

She stiffens when the overly familiar waitress collects her glass.

"Santana." She forces a smile.

"Berry." Santana scans her dismissively.

Intellectually, Rachel knows she looks good. Her makeup is artful, giving her an effortlessly flawless look, perfected from her days in bottom tier productions that could barely afford lighting let alone stylists. Her jeans are fashionable and the Chanel jacket Julian bought her probably cost more than this entire bar made in a fortnight.

Santana's wearing skin tight jeans and a white wife-beater that's thin with age. Her eyeliner is too heavy and she looks tired.

She's still one of the most gorgeous women Rachel has ever seen.

Rachel feels like she may as well be wearing argyle and granny sweaters.

"What do you want?" Santana snaps.

She's probably said those words a hundred times today, but Rachel doubts they were ever that hostile.

"Scotch. On the rocks," she says coolly. She doesn't like what recent studies have said about diet sodas, anyway.

She looks away before Santana can see the hurt in her eyes.

She fends off a couple improper offers, but mostly the people are friendly and polite and if she spends an hour and a half drinking by herself, it's not because she was unwelcome at other tables.

She watches Santana out of the corner of her eyes. She watches how she laughs with a couple of the older men in the corner, and how she glowers at a couple others who try to engage her in conversation. She can't take her eyes away from the sway of her hips and the way she flicks her hair behind her ears. It's all so familiar, yet a million miles away.

When Santana waves to the bartender and disappears into a backroom, Rachel can barely believe it.

It was the first time she'd seen the other girl in two years. _Two years_. They'd been best friends, Santana had been one of her _only_ friends and in two years she hadn't gotten a call, or an email, not even a Facebook message.

Just looking at Santana made her whole body hurt, and pine. She'd sat in there and waited and hoped for something, _anything_. It was disgusting, because the other girl hadn't even spared her a glance.

She throws some notes on the table, not bothering to count them out.

Outside, she tries to get the small umbrella she keeps in her bag up, but it's not cooperating. It fights with her hands, stabs at her fingers, and falls to the ground twice before she gives up and stumbles as quickly as she can manage back to her car. She's soaking wet when she falls into the front seat. The unlock button on her keys was being terribly unwieldy too. She'd have to get it checked.

Just as she was trying to fit her broken keys into the ignition there was a loud thwacking on her window. Rachel shrieks, hiding her face in her hands.

The knocking sounds again and Rachel peeks through her fingers.

Santana's face is eerily shadowed under the parking lot floodlights, one eyebrow cocked in amusement. Rachel lets her window slide down cautiously. No rain makes it past Santana and her umbrella.

"Having a little trouble there, alky?"

Rachel shakes her head silently. It's hard for her to think under Santana's cold gaze. "My keys are broken."

"Let me have a look." Santana holds her hand out expectantly and Rachel hands them over.

Without even looking at them, Santana shoves them in her pocket and walks away.

It's not until Santana's opening the door of her car when Rachel realises what just happened. She rushes across the parking lot. "Hey! What do you think you're doing?" she screams over the rain, which seems to be hitting her relentlessly.

Santana pulls away.

"You can't just leave me here!" She stamps her foot in indignation then wobbles as her other leg complains at having to hold her full weight.

Santana stops the passenger door right in front of her, waving at her.

Rachel gets in before Santana can change her mind.

"There was no need for that behaviour," Rachel tells her sullenly, rubbing her hands in front of the heat.

Santana scoffs. "That _behaviour_ was a lot more than you deserve, Berry. Would have let you and you're thick head on the road if it wasn't for innocent motorists."

Rachel falls silent, shivering in her wet clothes and uncomfortable at having to be sitting for so long.

"I'm keeping your keys. I'll have someone drop off your car tomorrow." Santana only frowns when Rachel doesn't respond. "You staying at your dads'?"

She nods, staring at Santana when she knows the other girl's eyes are fixed on the road. There's a million things she wants to ask, but she doesn't know how. The words won't come out; instead, they just sit dumbly on her tongue.

It's only a short drive, but Rachel doesn't get out when they pull into her driveway.

Santana's clutching at her steering wheel, fingers pale against the dark material.

"Why didn't you call me?" Rachel asks finally.

Santana looks at her disbelievingly. "Are you serious?" She shakes her head. "It's late, Berry, just sleep it off."

"No! I slept on it for two years!" Her voice comes out high and strained and not at all as forcefully as she'd imagined. "Just because _he_ left me didn't mean you had to as well."

"Look, if you have issues with Puck—"

Just hearing his name makes her throat tight and her heart beat painfully. "This isn't about him," she says it softly; quietly praying that Santana will stop talking about him. "You were my friend, too. And when he—when he…I didn't have _anyone_ and I just wanted _you_."

"Rachel…" Santana sighs and can't meet those huge brown eyes. She had been angry—angrier than someone who was just a friend had any right to be. And then Puck had been such a mess, she'd had to look after him first. "Things change, Berry. We might have all been happy once, but how was I supposed act after what you did?"

Her mouth falls open. "After what…_I did_?" She doesn't even know what just happened.

Santana's glare becomes almost violent. She can see all that confusion, somewhere under the hurt and intoxication. "Shit. Look, this isn't my problem, okay? Stop looking at me like that! It's been years and I'm not going back there." She slumps in her chair. "It's 3am. I want to go to sleep."

"Fine, but this isn't over." Rachel has never, in all her life, let something go.

She's not about to start.

}{


	2. Chapter 2

}{

_It's not meant to be like this._

_She was meant to make it out of this loser town, out of this loser state, and most of all out of her loser life._

_For five weeks she barely sleeps, barely eats, and kicks the mailbox irritably at least once a day._

_Her letter arrives in a pathetically thin package._

_"NYU invites you to reapply for our second semester…something, something, fuck you and your dreams too."_

_She doesn't make it through the first paragraph before tossing it in the trash, burying it as deeply as she can manage, so she never has to see it again._

_Rachel shows up three days later, once the rumour mill has worked the rounds. She has every state, national, and world report on university rankings available to cite her argument._

_When she lays out accommodation options for Ohio State across the dining table, Santana comes back to her senses. "Look I don't know how you found out where I live, but you will forget my address, and any of your cracked out ideas about talkin' Foucault with the cool kids. I'm not going to farmer's college, and I'm sure as fuck not going with your Juliard-flunking ass."_

_Rachel's face does that crazy intense thing that should scare anyone with any sense._

_Two months later she throws her suitcases into Rachel's perfectly ordered townhouse in the middle of Colombus and demands a second lock on her bedroom door._

}{

She tried, she really did.

She made it from her demi-plies all the way to her frappes without giving in to her body's very real need to give up (if she clung a little tightly to the barre, no one would know in the empty dance studio).

It only took one grand jete for her to end up an awkward heap on the timber floors.

She stretches out, not bothering to control her panting.

Both Julian and her doctor had told her she was ready. They lied.

The huge bright daisies Julian sent her this morning had forced her to this.

She wants to beat her hands against the floor and rage about ligaments that never seem to sew back together. Instead, she closes her eyes and pretends it's all one big stage production.

(There's nothing visible on the darkened stage. The dramatic thump of her cane of the floor will echo through the audience. The light deepens and the bitter, wizened crow ambles around her shambling cottage, waiting for someone to break the spell.)

"I think you're doing it wrong."

Santana ruins her daydreams with her usual eloquence.

Rachel clenches her eyes shut. As much as she wants to continue last night's lecture—there are thirteen bullet points she still hasn't covered—she's well aware of how little energy she has these days. Keeping herself clothed and showered has proven to be enough of a challenge.

Santana just nudges her in the ribs with her foot.

"What?" she snaps, struggling to her feet.

Santana watches on, fighting every instinct to help her ex-friend up, curiosity at the other girl's artless movements eating her up. But she can't ask, _can't_, because then she'd have to admit to caring.

She holds her hand out, keys dangling from her fingers.

"Thank you," Rachel says uneasily. She didn't expect Santana to actually bring them in herself. And she didn't expect anyone to find her at the Anglican Church's dance studio behind her house. (She knows her father's would never step foot inside, even if it's not actually the church, and she kind of needs them to stop asking questions.)

Before she can take them, Santana lifts them a tad higher. "See, here's the thing..." Rachel sighs immediately. "Somebody, maybe, threw something at your back window…You know, smashing it," the brunette informs her, not feeling even the tiniest inkling of guilt.

"Santana!"

"Chill! It's fine. I worked out a deal with Finn."

Rachel just crosses her arms, glaring hotly. "Oh, I'm sure you did. Finn was always interested in your _deals_." She was so, so angry. Santana was here out of guilt. Not for her. Never for that. Shame burnt through her body, leaving her oddly numb at once again being so easily forgotten.

Santana's lids lower dangerously. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean? And don't think I won't knock you on your ass just 'cause you're a cheap-drunk."

"_I meant_ that I don't need your dollar a dance favours," the smaller girl bites back.

Santana's mouth falls open. "Oh, _I know_ you did not just accuse me of being a stripper _again_. You better watch yourself, Berry, 'cause I might have made a damn good stripper, but you are one lousy _whore_."

Without warning, Rachel darts forward, slapping Santana with enough force to leave her hand stinging.

For a second Santana is left blinking in absolute confusion. She's hoping to God that any moment she's going to wake up, because this cannot be her life. Before her mind can shudder at the thought of what she's about to do, she hits Rachel back twice as hard. Everything gets hazy when she grips huge chunks of silky brown hair as Rachel's nails go straight for her face. She shoves the smaller girl just hard enough to get away from those vicious looking claws.

Santana's almost certain she's the one most surprised when Rachel tumbles down. Hard.

"Bitch! _What the fuck_?" She's having a lot of trouble processing what just happened, and the fact that Rachel is glaring up at her from under recently tussled hair, looking like a pained victim, is just making things twice as confusing. "You did not just attack me over Finnocence, did you? Because I will get you committed."

And it must have been a long time since her bitch-fighting days, because she forgot a very basic rule. Even when someone's down, keep your distance.

Rachel's leg shoots out, and that tiny yoga pant covered, dancer's leg knocks her ankle out from under her.

Santana sails forward, barely managing to catch herself before landing like a stack of bricks on top of Rachel.

Huge dark eyes stare up at her with fear. Small hands are just below her shoulders, as if to stop her fall. She can feel Rachel's chest moving under hers frantically. She grabs both of Rachel's wrists, pressing them into the floor beside her face. "This stops right _here_. Last warning." Rachel nods, but can't help squirming between Santana's knees. "Ugh." Santana rolls onto her back, forearms killing from the hard wood, face smarting like a bitch. She honestly thinks about punching Rachel, because, seriously, girl needs a lesson on not starting shit just because she's bat shit crazy.

The smaller girl is hunched over, touching her left leg gingerly, like there's a real chance it might fall off. Santana thinks she spots a tear fall onto the floor, but the wild chocolate locks (that _aren't_ now wrapped around her fingers) are hiding the other girl's face.

Santana, deciding to play the role of the girl who isn't insane, crawls to the nearest wall to collapse instead.

There's a long silence where the only sounds are the ceiling fans whirring lazily above.

Rachel scrubs at her face and pushes her hair back. There's no excuses for what she just did. She's always abhorred violence and she can't comprehend how she ended up rolling around on the ground barbarically. She's just so sick of that awful frustration that haunts her.

There's nothing quite like the bitter taste of useless anger.

"I hate you so much sometimes," she whispers.

(She can't talk about those other times. The times when she loves the girl curled up against the wall in front of her—the only real friend she ever had.

Those times are so much worse.)

It's not the apology Santana was expecting.

Rachel stares at the floor, too ashamed to meet Santana's eyes. "You know what sucks? I always knew Puck would leave me eventually. I knew there'd be someone else prettier than me, someone more fun, someone more like _you_ and I knew I couldn't compete. I was just so happy when we were together that I thought it was worth it."

She stares out the window, frowning at nothing in particular. "But never once did I think you'd leave me."

Santana swallows, but there's nothing to say to that.

She follows Rachel to the garage, not entire sure why she's the one feeling guilty after nearly getting mauled.

After Burt died nearly three years ago, Finn dropped out of Miami University, giving up his football scholarship to take over the garage and help out his mother.

Rachel clings tightly to her keys.

She knows she's a mess. She has a pair of tight shorts over her leotard and an old cardigan she hasn't worn in years. Her whole face is stinging and probably bright red. She couldn't put her hair up because it decided to rebel, probably in fear of Santana's proximity. Between the exhaustion and pain, her limp is worse than ever, Santana trailing a few steps behind makes her feel even worse about her ridiculously slow pace. She actually wishes she had her crutches, because she's not sure she can make it the twenty feet from the parking lot to the garage.

She lets out a sigh of relief once reaching the cold darkness of Hummel's garage.

Almost immediately that relief gets wiped away.

Finn's there, smiling nervously in his oversized navy jumpsuit.

More importantly, Puck's there, sitting on a desk covered in grimy looking car parts, chewing viciously on a sandwich and staring straight ahead like he can't even see her.

It's his usual work outfit, dark pants and a white shirt.

(He's so beautiful she can barely breathe).

Finn's eyes flick warily to his friend, because everyone in the room knows that huge ball of anger could explode at any second.

"Hey, Rach. When'd you get back in town?"

"Yesterday," she tells Finn in a tiny voice, her eyes are fixed on Puck and only years of theatre training let her look away. Or at least pretend to.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. _Even now all she wants is his arms around her. Just one touch. That's all she needs.

Realising that there was no more information forthcoming, Finn gave up on pleasantries. There were no safe subjects to talk about. Mainly because "Rachel" was the most unsafe subject there was around Puck. "Santana called me and I tracked down a rear windscreen in Fort Shawnee that matches your model. Got it for a steal, too. It should be here by this afternoon. I can get it done tonight, so you can pick it up in the morning."

Rachel nods. "Thank you, Finn, but you really shouldn't work late. There's no emergency." She hasn't seen Finn all that much since high school, and even then they only talked through Puck, really. It doesn't feel right to accept favours, especially when Puck's there, looking at Finn disgustedly.

"Don't sweat it, Rachel. These guys here have already profited enough from my slave labour." He gives a charmingly lopsided grin and Rachel can't help but beam back. Finn always had that effect on her.

Without preamble Puck storms out of the garage.

He doesn't once look at Rachel.

Santana merely looks bored when he scowls furiously her way.

Seriously, weren't diva storm-offs Rachel's thing?

He probably wanted to know what Rachel was doing here, and why she was with her, but whatever. She's not responsible for handing out real-time play-by-plays.

Even Finn can tell how embarrassed Rachel is.

"Don't feel sad, Rach. You know how Puck is: his head's always three moves behind the rest of his body."

She nods like she believes him.

They argue a little about payment, but he refuses to take any more from her than the price of the windscreen, and she's pretty sure he's lying about that.

Her leg feels absolutely dead, but before she can take a single step, Santana grabs one of her hands, pulling it around her neck and holding it tightly, her right arm wraps around Rachel's waist casually.

She'd really love to push the taller girl away, no matter how good she feels pressed up against her side, but in the end she accepts her pity, because it might be the only way she's getting home.

Santana drives them quietly back to Rachel's house.

Rachel searches her bag desperately till she finds a bottle of pep pills. She chews two and lets them dissolve under her tongue.

She thinks about those judgmental daisies frowning at her in disappointment from the kitchen bench.

"What happened to your leg?"

She knew this was coming.

"None of your business."

Santana doesn't ask any more questions.

When they get to her house she bounds out of the car and ignores Santana's attempt to help her. Her leg barely bothers her and the need to move overwhelming. She slams her front door closed, leaving Santana alone in the driveway.

She grabs that beautiful bouquet and drops it into the trash.

}{

_It doesn't start like this, but it's the only beginning Santana remembers._

_They've settled into some routine, mainly because Rachel's first love is timetables and her second is flowcharts. It's way too easy to avoid her roommate when the obnoxiousness gets too much to handle._

_Puck stays over more nights than not. She's pretty it's just because his friends left en masse and his pool cleaning business sucks over the colder months._

_Her back is pressed into her headboard while she flips through the glossy pages on her lap. That Hayden Panettiere skank totally got fat during winter hibernation. Before she can point out the cankles, she notices Puck isn't staring stupidly at her bedroom television like she expected. _

_It's totally weird, because she only lets Puck touch the remote three days a month (when her favourite magazines come out) and usually he's drooling into her comforter while weirdos in spandex beat each other with chairs. Instead, he's staring at her doorway, watching the hallway hawkishly. Before she can grab his attention, a door opens and Rachel steps out of the bathroom in a pool of steam, wearing nothing but a tiny white towel._

_The small brunette doesn't look their way, just walks briskly down the hall, one arm braced over her breasts to secure the towel, dark hair falling slickly over her olive skin._

_Rachel's bedroom door closes and Puck turns back to the television, not noticing Santana's lazily narrowed eyes. _

_She would have to be a lot stupider than she is to believe Puck's eyes are swirling with confusion and intensity because of the juiced-up losers on the screen._

}{


	3. Chapter 3

}{

_Her favourite days are Thursdays._

_She has no classes and nothing but a dance workshop in the evening. It's Santana's one free day too. _

_Once she would have spent the day studying or performing for some future audience in her room, but things are different now._

_She lays around in the lounge, affecting preoccupation with one thing or another. _

_Sometime around lunch Santana pulls herself out of bed. _

_Rachel made a pact with herself at the beginning of the year: no matter how much she wanted things to work out, she wouldn't crowd her roommate. _

_She used to bite her lip, waiting impatiently to see what Santana did._

_Not anymore. _

_She knows Santana will grab a bowl of sugary cereal and curl up on the lounge beside her. They make jokes about the Orange County housewives that should never be seen on television and laugh about how terrified every news presenter on Fox looks. _

_She lets Santana crimp her hair for half an hour, turning her into some 90s bubblegum band reject, and doesn't complain. Mainly because she's almost certain this is what girlfriends do, not that she's ever had a reason to know this. She also likes the feel of Santana's fingers running over her scalp, parting her hair, gentle and efficient. _

_Early one morning she sits on the kitchen bench in her exercise outfit, sipping from her water bottle. Puck is talking emphatically about some grunt job he applied for at an architectural firm. His hazel eyes are lit in a way she's rarely seen—a part from when he talks about sex, girls he wants to have sex with, or girls he's already had sex with. And she's so happy that he's finally found something to dream for that she doesn't realise he's standing between her legs, large hands resting just above her knees, until Santana walks down the stairs and glances disdainfully between the two of them._

_Santana pours herself a coffee as Puck disappears for a shower. _

_Coward._

_Rachel stares at her lap, waiting for some finger-wagging threat._

_She probably deserves it._

_Flirting with the guy who just crawled from your roommates sheets is a pretty slutty move. _

_Santana leans over the bench beside her. Sleep still weighing heavily on her. _

_She gives a silent yawn before her dark eyes sharpen. "Play it safe, Berry. Guys like Puck ruin girls like you every day." _

_She smacks her lips against Rachel's cheek to soften her words before carrying her coffee back to bed. _

_Rachel stops biting her lip after that. _

_Because she's never seen Santana that __gentle with anyone but Brittany._

}(

_I think of you every night and day__  
><em>_You took my heart and you took my pride away..._

_I hate myself for loving you_

-Joan Jett and the Blackhearts

}{

Santana heads for the back door of the bar after her shift, slinging her handbag over her back. It tends to get heavier throughout the day. Or her arm gets weaker. Whatever.

Puck is relaxing in the alleyway, staring upwards like he hasn't been waiting for half an hour. She probably would have screamed, or made some other overly girly noise of fear, but the well-practiced pose of apathy—one foot braced against the filthy wall, cigarette dangling by his hip—couldn't be mistaken for anyone else, even in the unlit backstreet.

She stands beside him, unconsciously mimicking his stance. He hands her the cigarette without looking and she takes a deep inhale that burns her throat and makes her mind go blank.

She really had given up years ago.

Kind of.

"What are you doing?" she asks, handing back the smoke, silently promising herself that was her last fun for the year.

"What are _you_ doing?" he asks, voice hoarser than it should be.

Santana barely resists rolling her eyes. What had she done to deserve such clever friends?

"Last night, Puck. That's the first time I saw her."

"Like I fucking care." He kicks off from the wall, stalking down the alley aimlessly. An innocent can makes the mistake of getting in his way and gets booted out of sight. "And you sure seemed pretty fucking cosy for having met last night."

Santana snickers. "So you say. You weren't there when she tried to separate my eyes from their sockets." She follows a few steps behind. She knows better than to crowd Puck when he gets in a mood.

He shoots her a disbelieving look over his shoulder before his mouth clamps down on whatever questions he so clearly wants to ask. "Yeah, whatever. What's she doing here anyway?"

"Didn't say." Santana balances her bag on the hood of her car while unlocking the door. "Think she's got an injury or something." She tries to read Puck's expression while simultaneously trying not to look at him. She knows he only gets that angry when he's scared of something. She'd put good money on Puck's biggest concern being getting sucked back into Rachel's crazy. She sort of knows the feeling.

"What did—"

"That's all I know, Puckerman. If you want detailed notes on Berry's schedule then you'll have to go to the source," she snaps. She sits in the front of her car and digs at the gravel of the parking lot with the tip of her boot. She's got her own issues with Rachel and she's not going to spend the rest of the week coddling Puck's years old sulk.

"I think I'll be right," he replies harshly.

Santana glares up at him. She didn't want to get between this, but when had she ever been able to keep quiet? "You're a fucking pussy, you know that?" Puck's lips turn unpleasantly, but she continues before he can respond, "I can't believe you couldn't even man up enough to talk to her. Not once! You should have done that much."

His mouth opens in astonishment. "You're as insane as she is if you think I need to explain myself to that slut," he says tightly.

She's called Rachel a lot worse over the years, but Puck saying it makes her uneasy. Maybe because she'd never seen a guy more in love than Puck had been with Rachel and it seems wrong for that to turn into something so ugly. Maybe it's because Rachel's here now and that makes it really hard for her to pretend they weren't friends, makes it harder to not say something in her defence.

"Yeah, then I'm insane," she rebukes quietly. "Tell her everything Puck. Then hate her as much as you want. Just let her know why first."

"Why the fuck does she even deserve that much?"

"Because she's Rachel!" Santana screams, before remembering she worked only ten feet away. But this was _Rachel_ they were talking about. Rachel who colour coded their timetables, who complained about their diet, who fought for them, who had been the best friend she'd ever known…

Puck shakes his head. "You're so fucking wrong. That girl isn't the Rachel we knew, okay? You wanna know how she tore her knee? She had a _seizure_ because she was so fucking jacked up on Addy." He had to pause for a second before continuing, because the thought still made him insanely angry. "You want to know why she's even still got a job? Because she's fucking her director. Who's _married_. Who has a _wife_ and _kids_. Who probably had a decent enough home before Rachel decided she wanted to become his _number one star_," he spits. Those heated eyes turn on her and she's never seen him look so malevolent before. Or so pained. "Does that sound like any Rachel Berry you know?"

Santana bows her head. It physically hurts to meet his eyes. _No_. That really doesn't sound like Rachel. Her heart beats painfully in her chest. She can't be angry or disappointed or anything but sad, because she's sitting in an empty parking lot, learning, probably years after the fact, about the girl that she'd once sworn she'd do anything for.

She should have been there.

Puck shouldn't have to be telling her these things, because she should already know.

And most of all, she shouldn't have helped break Rachel in the first place.

She rubs one hand over her breast. Her chest aches and her eyes sting uselessly.

She levels him with the hardest stare she can manage. "How do you know all that, Puck?"

He drops the butt of his smoke to the ground, screwing it under his shoe. There are excuses he could make—excuses that Santana would never buy.

"Still keeping tabs, huh?" she asks without much humour. "No, you don't need to talk to her at all," she adds sarcastically, "because it's so fucking clear that we're all doing just _fine_ the way things are."

Puck scrubs a hand over his face. He feels hot all over, like his blood was rushing too fast. "Did you ever think, San, that maybe I didn't want to hurt her any more? That maybe I took the easiest way out for _both_ of us?"

She eyes him distrustfully. "Not really. And if that's the truth, then you're as dumb as you look."

She was going to invite him home, but she really isn't in the mood anymore, so she leaves him in the alone in the parking lot glaring at him in rear vision mirror till he was nothing but a blur.

She knows it's not his fault.

It doesn't make her hurt any less.

}{

Rachel lays awake in her childhood bed. Even after years it still smells like home. Her cream comforter is probably the softest thing she's ever felt; she'll have to take it with her. Julian refuses to believe it's the greatest comforter on Earth without proof.

Still she can't quite sleep through the pounding of her heart. The thumping actually sounds like it's coming from inside her ears. Her legs twitch restlessly, and even if she could stay still, her eyelids are refusing to stay down.

No more pep pills in the afternoon, she reminds herself sternly.

Instead of spending uncomfortable hours in bed she decides to use her time productively.

After all, many insomniacs used their disorder to their advantage. What would Napoleon Bonaparte have accomplished if he'd wasted a third of his life?

She sets her sights a little lower. After all, Europe can wait till she's done a couple dozen laps.

She's happy her daddy sprung for a heated pool.

She'll hug him before he goes to work.

Her leg feels stiff and uncooperative, but her doctor had insisted water exercises would be beneficial.

She's on to her ninth lap when she spots the shadowy figure on the pool chairs. It doesn't really surprise her. Puck always watched her swim. After he left it had felt weird to be in water without his presence.

She crosses her arms on the edge of the pool, body floating limply in the water below her.

There's probably a lot of things to say, but the words dry up, swallowed whole by whatever emotion leaves her so paralysed she can barely breathe. In the end she just trembles (she'll have to get the pool thermometer checked) and tries to hide her expression.

"Hey," he greets stoically.

She wants to see what's on his face, but he's almost hidden in the shadows.

"_Noah_."

She really meant that to be a greeting, but it ended up coming out somewhere between a plea and a whimper. She takes a deep breath and pulls on an impressively cool show face.

_You are Rachel Berry, soon to be star of Broadway, and you will not cry at Noah Puckerman's feet like a wounded puppy begging for more abuse! _

She repeats her mantra of _you are Rachel Berry_, like it still means something, until she can look him in the eyes, or at least where she thinks his eyes are, without wanting to cry and scream.

"I'm not like a stalker or whatever," he informs her when the silence becomes uncomfortable.

"I didn't think you were." A stalker wouldn't have spent the last twenty months hiding from her.

"Was going home when I spotted the back lights on." Sure his house was thirteen miles in the opposite direction, but that wasn't the point. "Though I'd check everything was okay."

"It is." If he wants to lie, then she can too.

"Okay then. Good," he mumbles, standing quickly. "I guess I'll go."

Rachel lets out a high laugh. (She doesn't know who she's pretending to be anymore—probably someone who's not a quivering mess). "That's it? You have nothing else to say to me!" She shimmies out of the water, planting her hands on her hips and striking a pose of absolute indignation.

Puck glares, eyes skimming over her quickly before he turns away. He swallows, but the tightness in his throat only gets worse.

His silence only seems to infuriate her more. "You did not come here just to check on my father's house! _You didn't_!" she half begs.

His hands clench into fists. He grabs Rachel's mauve towel (knowing it's her fault he knows it's _mauve_) and holds it out, still not facing her. "Can you—?" He shoves the towel a bit closer. "I can't talk to you when you're…" He licks his lips and for the millionth time tells his dick to shut the fuck up for five seconds. _He_ might know better, but obviously all his body knows is his only long-term girlfriend is standing in front of him in a skin tight bathing suit, dripping wet, and so fucking gorgeous it makes him sick. "Put on the fucking towel, Berry."

Sheer perversity makes her grab the towel and let it dangle from her fingers. She can't believe he thinks he can tell her what to do.

Puck glances back at her, struggling to make eye contact. "Please." It hurts to ask, but he's pretty sure it's the only way anything coherent is going to come out of his mouth.

She wraps the towel around herself, hugging it close to her chilled skin.

"Why are you here, Noah?"

It takes him a while to answer. "I don't even know." _Because Santana's an evil bitch with voodoo powers_, is the obvious answer.

While he drove around her block three times, he probably should have remembered he didn't have a thing to say to her. "How long are you here for?"

"Why? Planning an extended trip till I leave?" she asks tartly.

It really fucking sucks that she knows him so well, because that was exactly what he was planning.

Rachel seems to sense this. "Don't bother. I can assure you, I have no intention of crowding you. I'm not here to beg you to come back, if that's the delusion your oversized ego concocted." She crosses her arms and glares fiercely up at him.

Every word, inflection, mannerism, is so very Rachel that it steals his breath He'd tried—for so long—to convince himself that the Rachel who was _his_ no longer existed, having her in front of him ruined all the lies he'd told himself.

For a second the world feels unsteady below his feet.

"Whatever. I just wanted to make sure there wasn't going to be any drama," he bites out, almost scoffing, because it's way too late for that now.

"_Drama_?" Rachel's voice goes thin and high, and Puck's pretty familiar with that tone. "Yes, how could I _dare_ to bring _drama_ into your life? That would be awfully inconsiderate of me, to come into your life and _ruin _it like that. What possible reason could I have to subject you to that ill treatment?" And she doesn't want to say it, doesn't want to even bring it up, because she's not sure her heart won't shatter just from thinking about it, but still it wouldn't be a tangent if she didn't manage to humiliate herself in some way. "After all, the only thing you ever did was abandon me, without a word, without—without anything!"

Her last words take a while to die on the night air, and when they do the silence seems even more suffocating.

That she isn't on the ground bawling her eyes out is a testament to her acting abilities, because she knows she'll spend the rest of the night doing just that.

It takes Puck a minute, because all he can think about is how if he opens his mouth, Rachel's going to cry and he's going to break something, and then the anger settles in. Why the fuck should he feel guilty? "What a brilliant little actress you turned out to be," he mutters snidely. She turns to him in shock. "As if you don't know why I left." For once Rachel is speechless. "What-thefuck-ever. I'm not doing this. I won't."

Rachel's fingers clench around her stomach. It tenses with phantom cramps. "Tell me?" she asks, voice stressy and weak. She doesn't want to know, _can't_, goes cold just at the thought of what he might say.

Puck doesn't answer.

He knows she can't hear it any more than he can say it.

}{


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N**: Smutty flashback chapter. Decided to forgo the italics. Too much is kind of annoying. This story is pretty awkward with all the flashbacks and stuff, so let me know if the layout gets too...unintelligible.

}{

_I'm not what I was last summer_

_Not who I was in the spring_

_Tell me, tell me, tell me when will we learn_

_We love it and we leave it and we watch it burn_

_Damn these wild young hearts_

-The Noisettes

}{

_2013_

Santana knows the end is coming.

And it's not just because there's a tiny picture of an aeroplane on their calendar marked five days from now.

Rachel's leaving for New York. It only took one semester of Ohio State and some exceptional planning skills for Rachel to get into Tisch. ("Really, their music program is avant-garde. Exceptional—even in comparison with Juliard!")

And she knows Puck will follow.

It's not like anything big has changed, but when he comes over, more often than not, it's when she's in class. He hasn't made a move, she's pretty sure they haven't even kissed, but Rachel blushes when their fingers touch.

Puck does too.

(Yes, she knew it was coming.

She just didn't think it would hurt so much.)

Puck fucks her one last time. He holds her above him, just high enough that he can still move inside her. It's her favourite position. He holds out as long as he can, teeth gritted, muscles clenching every time her hips roll.

It's probably the best apology she's ever received.

It's not enough.

She hates being left alone.

It'll be another semester before she can make it into NYU. She'll be stuck here, without anyone who gives a fuck about her. Rachel's already found a replacement for her room, a shy Indian kid who Santana hates on sight. She would have hated anyone.

In the morning, Puck looks guilty. His eyes flick to the door as he pulls on his jeans, calculating the thickness of the walls and the distance to Rachel, before sitting on the edge of the bed to watch her. Santana stalks around her room naked. She finds his shirt over her desk lamp and balls it up, tossing it at his chest as hard as she can. She wants to shout, "Yeah, Rachel fucking heard! I hope she changes her mind about you too!"

She stomps past him. Maybe she'll return his DVD collection the same way. Puck captures her around the waist, pulling her onto his lap. She struggles, but he pulls her tighter into his chest. "Don't, San," he warns. She goes limp. Puck doesn't sound quite like himself, and she knows she doesn't feel like herself. With bad hair and no clothes, or make-up, she feels vulnerable in front of him for the first time in years.

He rests his chin on her shoulder. "We're bros, right?" Santana snorts but doesn't disagree. There's probably some rule about not having sex with your "bro", but whatever, neither of them have ever given a shit about the rules before.

"You're leaving me," she accuses.

"You never wanted me before," Puck says with good humour, not denying it. It's reasonable, but he knows what effect reason has on arguments like this. (None.) Girls are crazy capricious like that. Or maybe just plain crazy.

She doesn't know what to say to that. Yes, she never wanted him as a boyfriend, or something more permanent than a fuck-buddy. She likes girls just a little too much to love any guy entirely. But that didn't mean he could just _leave_! He was still hers, or, at least, had never been anyone else's before.

He never expected a reply. "Please don't fuck this up for me. I really—" And his words abandon him. He should probably say that stuff to Rachel before he says it to Santana. He should probably even see if he has a _chance_, before admitting embarrassing shit like that. "I really want this. And I know she fucking listens to you, so don't tell her how she could do better or some shit," he growls. "Let her find out on her own," he adds jokingly, though he's not all that certain it is a joke.

"I wouldn't," she says testily.

They both know it's a lie, but because he's her bro he just hums under his breath and hugs her a little firmer. As much as she'd never admit it, she'll miss the way his arms feel around her. She runs a finger over the fine hairs on his arm, memorizes the cords in his muscles with her fingers.

His voice is strained. "Don't make me feel bad about this, 'kay?" He's going to do it anyway, but this might be one of those epic decisions that change everything forever and if it's going to work, if _he and Rachel_ are going to work, then they need every bit of help they can get. Including his best girl (he'd say "best friend", but that's gay, plus Finn had claimed that title at age six) in his corner and not using her bitch-evil ways to destroy him.

Santana nods, even though she's not sure how she'll manage that, because no matter what, she's going to feel bad about it.

She finds a way.

It's probably not what Puck wanted, but what the fuck, he's not her keeper.

She helps Rachel celebrate the night before she leaves. They probably should have gone out, but the few almost-friends they'd managed to make were still in finals period. Rachel had taken early examination to get her marks in time for the NYU cut-off. So, instead, they drink vodka sunrises alone, even though it's a grossly girly drink that Santana would usually make fun of, and watch some music channel that's never touched anything made after 1995.

They're both in a weird, slap happy mood that has them laughing at stupid things while still quietly miserable.

"I don't care what anyone says," Rachel whispers secretively, "I like Vanilla Ice."

Santana just grins. "…I rock a mic like a vandal. Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle. Dance go rush to the speaker that booms—" She raps along with the television until Rachel giggles and collapses against her. "Okay, I don't like it enough to know every word."

"S'from Glee," Santana says in excuse.

"Mmn," Rachel agrees in a disbelieving tone. She leans her forehead into Santana's neck. "I don't want to go tomorrow," she whispers in her secret voice again.

"Yes, you do," Santana replies automatically. Rachel's breath is warm on her throat. One small hand rests on her thigh, the other still cradling her drink. "You're just scared."

"No, I'm _happy_." She has Puck and Santana, and they're the only people she's had except for her fathers. She understands more now, understands why people would skip class to do nothing, would party every weekend, would get pregnant at sixteen. (It really doesn't matter what you're doing, if you're doing it with the right people.) "Don't want to leave you," she pouts. "Maybe I could postpone, just until classes start."

Santana shakes her head and shots the rest of her glass so she has both hands free. "You won't be happy till you're in New York. You're just _content_." She slides one hand into Rachel's hair, twirls a lock around her finger like she usually does. (But it doesn't _feel_ like it usually does.) "Plus if you miss O-Week, all the good friends will be taken," she warns. "And I know you'll want to sign up for, like, a million and one of your geeky clubs."

Well, the last bit is true, but, "I already took the good friends," she laughs, not caring that she's talking too close into Santana's skin and probably leaving hot, damp marks where her lips brush.

"Lame," Santana complains, ignoring how warm that comment made her.

"But _you'll_ probably make all new friends here. And then you'll forget about me! And forget about our plans in New York! And then you'll—"

Santana scoffs and cups the back of Rachel's neck, pulling her closer again. Puck is actually better at handling Rachel's dramatics (who'd have guessed?), but she's pretty used to them by now. "Enough, Berry. You think I could forget you if I tried?" She takes away Rachel's drink and puts it on the coffee table. This is a clear cut-off point.

"Promise," Rachel demands, knowing she sounds like a child. She never had a friend to get jealous over before, so maybe she's allowed to have her childish moments.

Santana leans forward and slants her mouth over Rachel's. For a second Rachel kisses her back, sweet and messy, nothing but lips and shared breath.

Rachel pushes her away with a gasping laugh. "Santana!"

"Promise," Santana agrees solemnly, not looking away from Rachel's lips. She tastes like fruit juice and lipstick.

"You can't just go around kissing anybody you like, Santana. You're going to end up with a sexual harassment lawsuit, because I saw you and the valet at—" Rachel can't finish her lecture because Santana braces her hands on Rachel's thighs and leans so close that neither girl can avoid eye contact.

Rachel's heart stutters with a sharp breath. "Santana?" It comes out weak and nervous. She's not so much of a loser that she doesn't know what's happening, she just can't figure out _how_ this is happening.

Santana presses a slow, delicate kiss against her lips. And another. And soon she has Rachel stretched out on their sofa, her thigh pressed into Rachel's centre as the other girl rocks against her to the rhythm of their lips.

Rachel tangles her hands in Santana's hair, fixes her mouth over the pulse point in her throat. The hands under her shirt, rubbing abstract shapes over her stomach and ribs, barely brushing the underside of her breasts are making her crazy, and she's not quite thinking straight when her teeth sink into Santana's skin. Santana feels her whole body go slack. She can't even breathe for a second.

She pulls back to search Rachel's eyes. The smaller girl shrugs, face heating. "Sorry."

Santana smirks. It wasn't exactly bad; it just surprised her. "Slower next time. If I jerk away when you've got you're greedy little teeth in me that could hurt."

Before she can go back to where they were, Rachel's hands tighten on her shoulders, not exactly pushing her away, just holding her in place. "What are we doing? We're _friends_, we're not supposed to be doing…_this_!"

Two months of being sexually active with Finn last year was not enough to teach her how to act in these situations.

"That's a stupid rule," Santana informs her. She carefully unbuttons Rachel's shirt, revealing the candy pink bra beneath. "I want you. You want me. We're friends and you're leaving tomorrow." Rachel stares up at her, half worried, half aroused. She takes off the pink bra in a move so practised it should be illegal. She can't stop her fingers from tracing the contours of Rachel's breasts. Not that she would if she could.

Rachel slides her hands down Santana's waist, as if not quite sure what to do with them. "How do you know I want you?" she challenges, but it's slightly too raspy to be a denial.

Santana presses her hand over Rachel's panties, cups her hard enough to feel the wetness seeping through the cotton. She gives a throaty laugh even as Rachel moans and thrusts against her fingers. "Oh, I'm a little bit psychic too," she mocks lightly. Her gaydar _was_ supernaturally awesome. And there was that time when one of the buttons on her shirt popped open and Rachel stared for a whole minute before managing to form words.

She didn't actually think seducing Rachel Berry would be this easy. She thought she'd have to sing some Celine Dion abomination, or perform the first two acts of _Gypsy_. Instead, Rachel holds on to her tightly and literally _begs_ to be fucked.

Santana obeys wordlessly.

With her fingers pressed deep into Rachel's heat, her throat closes on any smart remarks. Rachel's hips rock desperately, her eyes shut tight. It's too intense, too real. She can't even remember why she's doing this. All she can focus on is how to rub Rachel's clit just the right way to hear those sobbing screams.

Her breathing catches when Rachel's does, her body throbbing emptily as Rachel comes.

Rachel's still has a death grip around her neck, as she pulls her fingers free. Rachel makes a whining noise, her over-sensitized body still in aftershocks.

Santana's mouth goes dry. She shuts her eyes before they can water. She thought if she took everything Puck had it would make her feel better. She thought if she'd had everything Rachel was taking it couldn't possibly hurt. How could she be jealous if she'd had them both first?

She was wrong.

It only stops hurting when Rachel peppers her whole face and body with kisses and shyly undresses her. Santana throws one leg over the couch and puts one foot on the floor to help her out. She's pretty sure she could come just watching Rachel on her stomach between her thighs with only a tiny skirt bunched around her waist.

Rachel touches her experimentally, fingers dancing lightly over smooth damp skin, tracing Santana's slit with a wondering look. She glances up embarrassedly. "I don't know what to do," she admits quietly.

Santana's heart swells and she has to bite her lip to stop from saying something cutesy and emotional.

She sits up a little, bracing herself on one elbow. Shit. That really was a good view. "Whatever you want," she says gently, voice raspy. She grips Rachel's hand where it rests on her inner thigh.

She doesn't know whether she should kiss or kill Rachel's vocal trainers. Seriously, her tongue _never_ gets tired. She's pretty sure this is the only time she's ever had to say enough because her body couldn't take one more touch.

Rachel crawls up her body, beaming proudly. "You were right."

"Duh. What about?" Speaking took a lot of effort.

Rachel lies half on the lounge, half on Santana. "Sex with friends is definitely a good idea," she informs her giddily. "Am I squishing you?"

She rolls her eyes in response. "Shut up, Berry."

She doesn't say anything else, just let's Rachel fall asleep and cut off the circulation to her right arm.

She can't fall asleep, can't even close her eyes.

She wasn't right.

Not even close.

Rachel leaves and all Santana has is a dark bruise with teeth imprints on her neck. It aches when she turns her head, and aches even more when it disappears completely.

}{


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N**: Changed the rating to M. This story is not smutty. These chapters are just trying to make me look bad!

Thanks so much for reading and reviewing. I will only say that there will be a lot more Puckleberry _and_ Pezberry, so I hope there are fans of both reading.

}{

_In my head I replay our conversations__  
><em>_Over and over til they feel like hallucinations__  
><em>_You know me, I love to lose my mind__  
><em>_And every time anybody speaks your name I still feel the same__  
><em>_I ache, I ache, I ache inside._

-Kate Miller-Heidke

}{

_The first time she has sex with Puck, she decides they'll never be apart again._

_Two weeks after she moves into her tiny studio apartment in New York, Puck turns up with his hands in his pockets and an uncertain look on his face._

_She hugs him tightly and ignores the urge to cry. Even though she's been busy every day, at night she gets lonely and every noise takes the form of something sinister. She hates living on her own. _

_Whenever she spots weird things on the street she can't wait to tell Puck till she remembers he's in another state, and whenever _My Super Sweet 16th_ comes on she has to remind herself that Santana's not here to make fun of it. It's not so funny when you're watching it on your own. _

_Puck wants a tour of the city, which ends up including everything from the Irish pub down the street to the sports bar three blocks over. _

_Neither one of them drink very much. _

_It's just an excuse to stand too close and whisper into one another's ear over the music. All night Rachel can feel her pulse speed at every touch, every look._

_He holds her hand as they walk back to the apartment. It sends a little thrill through her and she can't stop looking at their linked fingers._

_Rachel fills him in on everything about NYU, the classes she'll take, the clubs she'll join, as if she hadn't already told him a dozen times before she left. Puck grins at her rambling and waits until they're inside before he uses his mouth to stop the flow of words. _

_He forces her up against the wall, one arm wrapped under her ass, the other braced on the wall. Rachel fists his collar, refusing to let him escape._

_Puck's mouth is on her neck, her shoulders, moving everywhere he can reach._

"_I've waited so long for this, baby," he bites out, sounding almost pained. He picks her up, letting her legs wrap around his hips and settles his hardness over her centre. He grinds her into the wall, and she uses her legs to grip him even tighter. "Wanted you so bad it fucking hurt."_

"_Why'd you wait?" she asks breathily, working on taking off both their clothes. _

"'_Cause I'm a dumb fuck." He can't take his eyes away. He knows he's supposed to be some man-whore extraordinaire, but he's doesn't feel like it; he feels like a dumbass kid, finally getting everything he ever wanted and is scared as fuck of coming in his pants and ruining the whole thing. _

"_Bed," she orders firmly. Puck just grunts and carries her the four feet. _

_The wall will be fun at a later date, but their first time is going to be in a bed. She has a plan for them, and she refuses to be led astray from it so early._

_Well, sex wasn't in her notes till after two weeks of official dating, but she can't get enough of his naked skin, so she decides some minor changes to the timeline will have to be made. _

_She loves the firm skin of his back, the muscles in his arms, the strong lines of his chest and abs. She doesn't think she'll ever have enough time to explore his body the way she wants._

_He slides into her slow and hard and they both shudder at the feeling._

_He bows his face into her hair, body still trembling at the feeling of her wrapped so tight and hot around him. "God," he hisses, "_so fucking good_. Not gonna' stop ever." He wanted to go slow, wanted to make it last, but the harder he pounds into her, the tighter she gets and the louder she moans. "Gonna' go slow next time, promise." _

_Rachel can only bury her face in his shoulder to try and smother her moans. She was past the point of caring; she would have let him take her on the sidewalk if she knew it would be like this. She comes first and drags him over the edge as her nails dig into his sweaty shoulder blades, and her body clenches so hard he can't even move as he spills inside her. _

_They both go limp. He only moves enough to discard the condom._

_The only sound in the room is their desperate breaths and pounding hearts._

_Puck stands and pulls on his jeans._

_For a moment, Rachel can only blink in shock before getting angry at Puck stealing away his body heat before even cuddling. She moves to her knees and curls her fingers into the waist of his jeans. She tugs him back, revealing the surprising strength in her fingers._

_Puck can't even laugh as she pushes him onto the bed and straddles his waist, pressing her hands into his chest. It's, _legit_, the hottest fucking thing on the planet. "Don't you dare even think about it, Noah Puckerman! I waited just as long as you did and if you think I'm even half way through with you, you are sadly mistaken," she growls. _

_He didn't mean to be an asshole; things were just moving way too fast. He was already half in love with her and he really wanted to escape before she figured that out. Yeah he was a total BAMF and whatever, but letting someone have that much power over you was fucking terrifying. _

_He reaches up to brush her cheek. Even though she's trying to use her tiny body to pin him like a pro, he can see the hurt in her eyes. He really hadn't meant to fuck things up this fast. "Sorry, Rach. Force of habit."_

_She nods, sniffling a little. "Well, it's a terrible habit and you're going to have to do your best to curb it."_

_Puck pulls her down, letting her forehead rest against his. "Never again, baby," he promises. "Or," he concedes thoughtfully, "maybe just once more so your little ninja ass can hold me down and take advantage of me."_

_Puck doesn't leave her side until he runs out of shirts two weeks later and has to drive back to Ohio to get the rest of his stuff._

}{

She watches the house for long, quiet minutes before working up the courage to knock on the door.

Secretly she thinks it's because Rachel would appreciate the drama of the moment—the will-she-won't-she scene that is stock for every great story.

Judah opens the door.

"Hey. Is Rachel in?" she asks, knowing she sounds cold and bratty. Rachel's fathers must know. They must realise that their daughter stopped talking about her best friend the same time she stopped talking about her boyfriend. They must think she's the shittiest friend in the world.

Embarrassment always brings out her teenybopper bitch side.

Judah gives her a smile so sweet and sincere she has to give one back.

"She should be back any minute. Why don't you come in and wait and I'll get you a drink?"

Santana just nods gratefully and follows him inside.

Here's a secret that was never really a secret: she has a total crush on Judah Berry.

He's the sort of guy that shouldn't really exist outside of novels or old movies. All that sophistication that the Fabrays try so hard for with their cold, waspy stares?

It ain't got nothing on one of Judah's smiles. Beside the 6'3, gay, half-black Southern Jew they all look like cheap imitations.

He chats to teen hoodlums the same way he talks to the mayor and helps old ladies cross the street. No shit. She'd once seen him lend his car to a neighbour he didn't even know, because hers was out of fuel and her kids needed to be picked up from school. Yeah, other people might do it, but not without a few glances of suspicion. Judah did it, the thought that he might never see his car again never once entering his head.

That's real class—the kind that is ingrained from birth and can only come from truly great parents, and not a bank account.

He fixes her a cup of coffee, looking perfectly at ease with his daughter's ex-friend.

"Tell me what you've been up to, Santana. I've seen you around a bit, but we never seem to get a chance to talk," he complains gently, his words still carrying the remnants of his South Carolinian birth.

That's because she avoids him, ducking behind corners and rushing off in the opposite direction. She knows it's damn childish, but she's always terrified that he might start asking questions on his daughter's behalf.

"Just bartending over at Henry's."

She hates that she says "just", that she has to prepare people for disappointment. She waits for it—that slight flicker of the eyes that lets her know she's a failure. _Didn't you go to NYU? Weren't you supposed to be something?_

Judah just nods and hands her a coffee. "I hope you don't work the bar alone at night. That place can get rough."

She should have realised he was far too polite to ask questions that might embarrass her.

"It's not so bad. " She shrugs. Sure she hated people getting in her face when she cut them off and when old losers legit thought they had a chance of taking her home, but mostly it was okay. "Where's Rachel anyway?"

"Doctor's appointment. She should be on her way home by now."

"How is her leg?" She asks experimentally, taking a guess. She doesn't know how much Rachel told him, either about how she got the injury, or how very little she deserves to hear about it.

Judah hesitates a second, like he knows she's fishing for information she shouldn't have, but replies, "It's been six weeks since her surgery to fix the ligament. X-rays show it's healed well, so her doctors can't work out why it's still giving her so much pain."

"That sucks."

"It does."

They both hear the door open. Maybe Judah sees her tense, or maybe he knows more than he's letting on, either way he lays a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I have some work I better finish up. I really hope I see you more often, Santana."

She hopes so too.

She doesn't hear what he says to Rachel as he passes her, but it makes Rachel square her shoulders.

Rachel's wearing a tight, expensive looking black dress. It clings to her curves, and makes her look mature. It's not very Berry, and Santana can't say that she likes it.

It doesn't stop her from looking.

"Santana!" Rachel gushes, throwing her arms around the Santana's shoulders.

It's over too quick to be called a hug. It's confusing and unexpected and hurts so fucking good Santana feels shaky.

At least until Judah disappears around the corner with one last smile and Rachel backs away like she was burnt. Her expression doesn't change though. It's still perky and bright.

"Can I help you with something Santana?" She pops her hip up against the table, but doesn't sit down. Bending her leg for too long hurt, and the stillness of sitting down made her feel uncomfortable.

Santana knows they're not on the best terms, but she doesn't think she deserves to be treated like she has stranger danger imprinted on her forehead. "I can't find Puck," she says. It's a blatant accusation.

Rachel's smile widens, even as her eyes dim. "You don't suppose I'm hiding him, do you?" she kids wryly.

"Did he talk to you?" Whatever is happening, she's obviously three plays behind everyone else and she can't stand that shit. Once again, she's been demoted to outsider.

Rachel doesn't answer, just stares somewhere over Santana's shoulder before snapping back to reality. "What do you really want? God knows it can't be Puck, because this is the last place he'd be."

She takes a deep breath, and searches for the words. This _so_ is not her thing. She doesn't know how to talk about her feeling, or how to make things right. Screwing up is more her specialty.

"I don't know." She looks away. The necessary intimacy of the moment is making her skin crawl. She can't do this: she can't lay herself bare; she can't make herself vulnerable; and she can't make things better, because she doesn't know how they got so fucked up in the first place. "I _really _don't know what the fuck I'm doing here."

Rachel pauses before laughing darkly. "Then maybe you should just leave then. That is what you're good at."

She tilts her chin, eyes narrowing. She must have grown up a bit, because once she would have hit someone for throwing her mistakes back in her face so vindictively.

"I'm sorry."

Rachel does a double take. "What?" Her mask slips just enough that Santana can see the weariness below.

She grits her teeth. "_I'm sorry_. I'm sorry I ignored your texts. I'm sorry I didn't call. And I'm sorry I left you alone in New York." She sorry about so much more, but that's the best she can do. She holds her head high and doesn't even think about crying.

Rachel blinks at her dazedly, rubbing her hands over her arms as if to warm herself. There's so much longing in her eyes that Santana can feel her heart tearing.

Rachel had once worn that look perpetually, in high school when she looked at Finn, in that summer after high school when Jesse had come back, and in those first few weeks of college where Rachel had tiptoed around her.

It's the look of someone who would do absolutely anything just to have someone care about them.

Santana thought she'd broken Rachel of that desperate loneliness.

She'd never thought she'd be the one to bring it back.

But Rachel's grown up to; she'd learnt her lessons the hard way. That bright mask of apathy is brought back from her endless repertoire. "I'm glad," she says softly, "but that still doesn't explain what you're doing here."

She gives Rachel a hard glance, searching her eyes for something readable. "I'm doing exactly what I want. I'm drinking coffee at your kitchen table, just talking. _Here_. _With you_."

Rachel's already shaking her head. "_No_. You do not get to walk back into my life and expect things back the way they were. You do not get to just apologize and think that makes us _friends_. It doesn't and we're not," she hisses, using that low, throaty voice people use when they'd rather be screaming.

Santana can feel her own mad coming on, but there's only room enough for one drama queen in this scenario and that role is clearly taken. And by the rightful party, because Rachel should be angry. She knows this, knows she deserves to be yelled out. But being wrong fucking sucks.

"I know, Rachel, alright? I fucking know that I don't deserve your forgiveness. But I miss you and I'm greedy and want it anyway."

Rachel pulls out a chair, sitting clumsily and throwing her foot up on another. She glares at her ballet flats. She really misses her heels. "This isn't me forgiving you," she informs Santana haughtily. "This is me _tired_." She doesn't even have words to explain how deep her exhaustion runs.

"Close enough." She feels like she can breathe again. She studies Rachel, soaking in her presence like she hasn't allowed herself to do for a very long time. Rachel wears a lot of make-up, but it's cleverly done and few people would notice. Her hair is in perfect loose curls that look artless, but take forever to do. It's a good look, but Puck was right. She doesn't know this Rachel.

"So, you and Puck finally get that screaming match you guys been holding out for?"

"No, and I'm not in the sharing mood, so let's not do this." A tremor runs through her right hand, and she sits on it before Santana can see. Maybe she's even more tired that she thinks.

"Yeah, well, I am—so deal." Somewhere along the line, Puck became her responsibility and finding this stuff out became a necessity. "What did he say?"

"Why aren't you in school?" Rachel shoots back, not expecting an answer, just an excuse not to talk.

Santana knows this angle. "Because without you and Puck New York fucking sucked. I couldn't do it on my own and I didn't want to try." She knows exactly how pathetic she sounds, but it's a necessary evil.

Rachel wants to break into a long, emphatic speech about how important finishing law school is and how Santana was perfectly capable, but that's not her place anymore. And Santana hadn't hesitated to leave her on her own in New York.

"He was only here for a minute." Her mouth goes dry and her other hand starts trembling too. She rests her forehead against it. She thought she was over this. She thought she'd cried her last tears for Puck and moved on.

Santana reaches out, touching her hair. Rachel jerks away. "Do you remember when I called you? After he left?" she asks, knowing her voice sounds high and not all that sane.

Santana nods. There's an uneasy feeling in her stomach. She wasn't trying to upset Rachel. That was the last thing she wanted.

"It was the worst phone call I've ever made. I didn't know where he was. And I was scared. And I was alone. I thought—God, I don't even know! I was so worried that I couldn't even think. And then you answered. And I could hear him, telling you to hang up—telling you that he didn't want to talk to me." Her eyes flicker wildly. Her throat is thick with tears, and her eyes are just beginning to spill over. "I thought I was going to die, Santana. I lay in my bed, _sobbing_ all day and all night and it just hurt so much that I didn't think I'd ever stop. I thought the pain would kill me." She hugs herself tightly, looking up. "I think the only reason it didn't is because I was waiting for you. I kept thinking you'd come for me and you'd explain what happened and make it better."

Santana can feel her own eyes burning.

Rachel can see it too. "You want to know the really pathetic thing?" Santana's answer would be an emphatic _no_, but Rachel doesn't wait. "I don't think I ever stopped waiting. I got used to you not being there. But I never stopped expecting you to come back."

"I'm sorry," Santana says before she can stop herself. Sometimes those words are so useless; saying them only makes it more obvious.

Rachel is sick of apologies. She just opens her eyes wide and tilts her head back till she's drowning in her own tears, but almost certain they won't fall from her eyes anymore.

When she speaks again it's small and sad, a child's question.

"Why did he leave me, San?"

She almost doesn't answer. She looks into those chocolate brown eyes and wants to lie, because she's sick of seeing them in pain. But she's never been one for comforting lies.

"He didn't tell me." She can't meet Rachel's cynical gaze. "Not for a long while. I don't think he would have. But one night he got drunk—a lot of nights actually and he'd let things slip. I just put the pieces together." She hesitates. "He followed you to Chicago, Rach. He knew you cheated on him."

Rachel goes eerily still, her eyes wide and empty.

She drinks her cold coffee and tells herself she was trying to be a good friend.

}{

_The first (and last) time she cheats on Puck, she decides they'll never be apart again._

_It's her first lead in a decent production. It might not be on Broadway, but it's in Chicago with a well-respected director, and a young but promising cast. _

_She hates to leave New York, but she couldn't stay. _

_Not when she wakes up at three in the morning to the sound of Puck throwing up in the bathroom, not when he falls asleep on the lounge because he can't stand sleeping beside her, not when she has to wake him up for work when he still reeks of beer and bourbon. _

_She hates him a little more every day. _

_After a wildly successful first fortnight, their director, Julian, throws a lavish party at their hotel. _

_Julian introduces her to Rhys Donovan as his most beautiful muse. _

_She giggles high and wild, slapping his arm with her clutch. "Stick to directing, Julian; acting is not your forte," she teases. Too much champagne has made her flirty and just a touch obnoxious. Even she can recognise this._

_Julian tells her she couldn't handle the competition and goes in search for a producer just waiting to fork over some cash for his next project._

_Rhys is a successful writer, famous for translating scripts into screenplays._

_He tells her she'd look good on the big screen._

_Rachel's never been able to turn away from a compliment._

_In the end, she can't say why she follows him to his hotel room. She only knows that he wants her and Puck doesn't._

_He kisses her rough and fast, forcing her skirt up around her waist. Before she can even breathe he's pushing her panties aside and shoving three fingers inside her. It hurts because he doesn't take the time to learn her body, stretching her in all the wrong places. She shuts her eyes and tries to feel something past the wrongness of everything._

_When she feels the heat building between her legs, she feels ill. _

_She doesn't know his face or his body, or the small smile he gives when her body flutters under his touch. She hates his blond hair, and his smooth fingers. She hates everything about him because he's not her Noah, and her body isn't his to touch._

_He pulls away to undo his fly._

_She mumbles something inane and escapes into the hall with Rhys's surprised curses following her. _

_She sobs under the scalding water of her shower like some broken cliché._

_Curled up in her hotel bed, she can still feel his fingers. She wants Puck and Santana like she's never wanted anything in her life. She wants Santana to laugh at her for being a little idiot, she wants Santana's arms around her and she wants Puck to kiss her on the brow and tell her everything would be all right. _

_She books a flight the next morning and Julian asks if she's lost her mind. _

_She knows something's wrong the second the she opens her apartment door. It's too quiet, too empty. She rushes to her bedroom and throws open her wardrobe door. There's nothing but her dresses and blouses, fluttering lonely amongst all the gaps where Puck's clothes used to hang._

_She searches the whole apartment for a note, or any explanation at all. _

_There's nothing but a white envelope by the bed, filled with next month's rent. _

_Surprisingly, it's the first time she's ever felt like a whore._

}{


	6. Chapter 6

}{

_She allows Puck to give her a piggyback ride through Central Park while she finishes her ice-cream, because she hates walking and eating at the same time. She has too many bad memories of cheerleaders thrusting food into her face._

_She points out the pretty penthouses and tells him their occupants will one day be begging for tickets just to see her. _

_He points out how ugly the penthouses are and tells her one day, when he's a real architect, those same people can beg him to design a building that doesn't look like shit. _

_Rachel rarely allows anyone to pick her up, not when she's injured, not when she's asleep, and certainly not as someone's idea of "fun"._ _It's undignified. And terrifying. The last time Puck threw her over his shoulder during a tickle war, she called a time-out, flinging herself from his grasp with a poisonous pout. _

_(She can't help feeling his ability to carry her is some snide mockery of her stature._

_He tells her living without meat is making her crazy. Well, crazier.)_

_So, Puck doesn't grumble as loudly as he should at being treated like a pack horse, figuring she might mellow and drop the tickle ban in their apartment. He only grunts when she complains about his unsteady gait and puts him into a chokehold just because they're passing a pond. _

"_Gimme," he demands, head dipping towards her ice-cream._

"_I thought you said soy ice-cream was for losers," she taunts and takes a leisurely lick for good measure._

_He loosens his hands from under her thighs and laughs as she squeals and tightens her legs around his waist. He stops laughing when her arms seal vice like around his throat._

"_If you drop me Noah Puckerman, I will upload every one of those photos of us picnicking on Valentine's Day!"_

_He grips her firmly beneath her knees. (That picnic involved rose petals for fuck's sake.) _"_Rach!_ _Shit, you know I would never drop you."_

"_One lick," she warns, lowering her ice-cream to his mouth, "and only because you whine so pitifully."_

_He takes the biggest bite he can manage, regretting it slightly when the cold goes straight to his head. _

"_Oh look!" Rachel squirms until he lowers her. "Doesn't she look beautiful, Noah?"_

_They both stare at the wedding party posing for the photographer on the other side of the pond. He can't actually make out their faces all that clearly, so the bride could be a total butterface. _

_Not that it matters. _

"_I guess," he says indifferently._

_(Boyfriend Rule 1: Never tell your girl someone else is hot. _

_Boyfriend Rule 2: Never disagree.)_

_He's pretty proud of his ability to evade girl traps._

_Rachel leans into his side, twining their fingers together. _

_Her face has gone all soft and dreamy, so he can't really escape turning into a total pansy. _

"_You want that shit?" he asks gruffly. _

_They've only been dating for four months, so he should probably be dragging her in the opposite direction as fast he can, but whatever. He's got a fucking brain somewhere—he knows a good thing when he's found it, and he knows he'll do whatever it takes to keep it. _

"_What? A wedding?" she asks, only half startled. _

"_Mmn." _

_If Rachel wanted a diamond ring or a map to the Lost Tribe of Dan to prove they were forever, he'd find it, buy it, or steal it. _

"_I don't know," she replies softly. "I just want…" she gives him a shy glance, "whoever I'm with to want me, to choose to come home to me every day, and choose to stay with me for all our years. And to make that choice, not because of some legal document or religious obligation, but because they don't want to be anywhere else." The passion seeps from her voice and she looks up at him, scrunching her nose slightly. "Are you going to make fun of me now?"_

_Puck just shakes his head, squeezes her hand. He puts a quick kiss on the crown of her head and leads them away slowly._

_He couldn't believe that's all Rachel Berry needed. _

_Because all he'd ever wanted was to come home to her._

}{

The thumping on her front door wakes her almost immediately.

It echoes threateningly through her tiny flat.

She pads silently to her kitchen, grabbing a steak knife. She doesn't exactly live in the safest neighbourhood.

She peeps through her living room curtains and isn't even slightly relieved at what she sees.

"Fuck no," she breathes, opening her door.

Finn smiles at her sheepishly, taking in the rainbow bed socks (a Christmas present from Brittany) and makeshift weapon without comment. He grips Puck's arm firmly and leads him inside.

"A bartender from Gillie's called me to come pick him up," Finn whispers, as if Puck wasn't right beside him.

She doubts Puck would understand if the words were screamed directly into his ear. She knows Puck and she knows drunken people. From the glassy look in his eyes and the weird shuffling it takes just to keep him standing, she's guessing he passed _drunk_ about half a keg ago. Whoever was serving him should have kicked him out on his ass hours ago.

"And this is my problem, how?" She tilts her head dangerously, twirling the knife in her fingers slowly. She should totally kick them both out. Let Puck spend a night in the gutter, maybe he'd learn something about moderation. And, you know, not waking her up at fucked-up o'clock in the morning.

Finn gives her a pleading look, brown eyes wide and pathetic. It reminds her of the mindless, yet somehow darling cattle that line the roads just outside of town.

She's always had a weakness for dumb and pretty.

"You totally owe me one, Finnane."

He smacks Puck on the shoulder. "I'll give you a call tomorrow. Make sure you made it through the night."

He pauses on the doorstep. "Finnane?" He shakes his head. "Not your best work, Santana."

She glowers. "It's _late_."

After he leaves, she turns on Puck. "You better sober up, loser, because I'm not dealing with your drunk ass all night." She needs her eight hours or things get real ugly.

Puck blinks too many times and swallows twice before managing a slurred, "'M fine."

She shoves him towards her couch, but somehow ends up falling on top of him in her efforts. "I swear to your Jew-God, I will call your mother if you don't shape up." Mrs. Puckerman was a megabitch. And that was coming from an uber-bitch.

"Ya'wouldn't dare," he laughs. His mother hated Santana, probably even more than she hated Quinn, which was saying something.

He wraps an arm around her waist and buries his face behind her ear. She feels warm and soft, and smells like freshly washed linen and peppermint. It's usually comforting, but it makes his stomach turn tonight. Everything does. He breathes through his mouth and slides his hands under the waistband of her tiny boxers. Santana makes a disgusted sound, pulling away slightly.

"Where the fuck you been? I called you like four times, asshole." Nobody ignores a call from Santana Lopez. It's just not done.

Puck shrugs.

"Ugh," she sneers. If he'd really been drinking from midday till four in the morning, then that's seriously messed up. She'd had to deal with this on a semi-regular basis after he left New York and there was no way in Hell she'd be going through that again. She grips Puck's shoulders and gives him a small shake to grab his attention, narrowing her eyes into mean slits. "You pull a repeat of this shit and I will _end_ _you_. _Comprende_?

I told Rachel you were in Chicago. I told her you saw her and whatshisface. _I'm_ the one who explained your break-up to your ex, so I don't know what _your_ problem is."

Puck leans back, letting his eyes fall closed. "Fuck off, Lopez. We were over long before she messed around—so don't bother trying to protect her."

She's tossing up between slapping him and waiting till he falls asleep to smother him when Puck goes deathly pale and his eyes fly open fearfully. She sits back and relaxes while Puck stumbles towards the bathroom.

You know all that stuff lifetime movies tell you about holding back someone's hair while they throw up, rubbing their back and whatever? It's all bullshit. Santana's had enough bouts of alcohol poisoning to know what people really want when they're bent over the porcelain bowl is to be left the fuck alone.

Santana waits until the retching noises die down before following. She tosses a throw rug over Puck's unconscious form curled on her bathroom tiles.

She sort of wishes she could fall asleep that easily.

}{

She heard the taxi pull from her driveway and was bounding down the stairs, across the room, and throwing open the door before Julian could even raise a hand to knock.

Julian smiles in amusement, bright teeth flashing in the sunlight. His blue-black hair curls softly, and she doesn't think she's ever seen anything more comforting than his warm brown eyes.

She wraps him in an exuberant hug, clutching at his shirt. She sniffles once or twice, but Julian just smooths her hair back with a soothing sound.

As the son of a great actor, and soon-to-be world renowned director, he's rather used to dealing with artistic temperaments.

She pulls away, meticulously smoothing out the wrinkles she put in his shirt.

"I've missed you, Miss Berry," he greets sincerely.

She tosses her head. "I don't believe you! If you missed me then you wouldn't have left me here on my own!"

He laughs. Theatrics have always amused him. "You're becoming far too good of a temptress." He glances around, well aware that they're in front of her parents' house, before kissing her slow and deep. He holds her face gently until her eyes open slowly. "Now please tell me one of your huge, burly fathers is home to glower and chase me with a gardening tool because I'm only here for a few hours and flying is far too dull."

She examines his tall, lithe frame. "Dad is home. You might have an inch advantage, but I'd say he has a good thirty pounds on you."

"Ah, the joys of being the scrawny kid never do end."

She introduces him as her director and Judah smiles and shakes his hand. She doesn't think anyone but her or her daddy Aaron would notice his slightly reserved tone. She avoids her father's questioning glances and could swear Julian's wedding band triples in size and is deliberately trying to catch every beam of light.

They escape into town, Julian complaining happily about her refusal to let him drive. She'd learnt that people born and raised in Manhattan couldn't drive, and when they did it was best to not be on the road.

"Your father seems like a good guy. Considering."

"Considering what?" she asks cautiously.

Julian gives her a look to suggest she knows exactly what he means. "Considering I'm only ten years his junior, and having an affair with his only child that I happen to employ."

She focuses on the road, running the numbers in her head to assure herself Julian was exaggerating. She hates when he lays everything out so casual and ugly. Words like "affair" make her uneasy, but Julian always says sugar coating the words wouldn't make her actions any easier to deal with. He'd once told her, one of the few things he had to give her was honesty, so he never skimps on brutal truths.

She ignores most of his words, simply informing him primly, "You are not my boss." It's an ongoing argument.

(Julian likes to think he's in charge of the world.

She knows it's the producer's name on her cheques.)

"I suppose I can assume your parents know nothing about your life?" he asks lightly.

Rachel sighs. She doesn't know when that happened either, because once she'd been happy to share every detail. It gets harder when those details become more disappointing. She changes the subject to his life and listens with half an ear for the rest of the way about Anna's new boarding school and the trials and tribulations of dealing with a cast of overgrown children.

She's met his daughter and wife a few times before. Margaret even invited her to her last birthday party, which was only weird because of its lack of weirdness.

Although they were always discrete, in certain circles their relationship was an on-running joke.

People laughed about Julian's "closed-door auditions" and the Ohio girl, desperate to be famous—it was a cliché come to life.

She had no doubt his wife had heard the rumours, but Margaret had been perfectly nice, if a little drunk. His daughter, Anna, had given her a filthy look, but Julian assured her she was twelve and gave _everyone_ that look.

She leads him through the main street of town, arms linked, which was an odd thrill. Julian loved his wife too much to do that sort of thing in New York. They might not be _in_ love anymore, but he never wanted to hurt her.

She remembers walking down these streets with Puck or Santana. They couldn't make it a block without a dozen people stopping to talk to them. She'd always stand to the side and slightly behind smiling politely (at someone who was probably in her class too) while Puck talked about the big game or Santana bitched about unfamiliar names.

Rachel can count the people who'd stop to talk to her on one hand.

Julian looks around wide-eyed and says in a hushed voice, "I've heard so much about this place."

Rachel was caught somewhere between protective and scornful of the town that had been so very cruel to her. She could guess what Julian had heard. Lima was rather infamous. So few accomplishments they bragged about rainfall; so conservative that when the Democrats were in power, shopkeepers only took cash—to keep tax dollars out of "them commie" hands. There's little good to say about Lima, Ohio, so she prattles on about the art deco architecture, not mentioning that it only exists because the original buildings had been so poorly managed.

They sit opposite each other at a busy café, legs threaded together under the table. Rachel has her usual soy flat white while Julian sips his espresso that she always makes a face at. What an awful idea. It's like drinking tar.

She finally tells him her doctor's estimate and waits for the inevitable heartbreak.

Julian grimaces before touching her cheek sweetly. "I'll figure out a way to delay the show. What's Broadway without you?"

She knows she's looking at him like a lovesick school girl, but she can't quite stop.

Let New York laugh and whisper.

Julian had been there when she needed someone the most. Yes, they used each other. She liked being his favourite star and he needed enough happiness to go home every night to a woman he had nothing in common with.

But their life worked.

Most of the time that was enough for her.

The moment ends quickly.

Julian looks past her, face darkening slightly. "It really is a small town."

Rachel turns to see what he's looking at.

Puck and Santana stand just inside the door. Puck's eyes are fixed on Julian; a poisonous look crosses his face before he can shake it off.

His face changes when he looks at her.

He just looks sad.

Santana pushes her sunglasses to her head, looks them over wryly and waggles her fingers.

Rachel gives a small wave back.

Puck slings his arm around Santana's shoulders and pulls her to the most distant table they can manage.

"He's been like that the entire time?" Julian asks incredulously.

She laughs bitterly. "That was nothing."

He grabs her hand and brings it to his lips. "We could always make it something." There's a shrewdness in his eyes when he opens her palm, lays small lingering kisses inside her wrist.

It makes her shiver.

She looks over her shoulder to find Puck glaring at them while Santana looks on interestedly.

She snatches her hand back. "Julian!" she hisses. "If you want to cause a scene, go back to your stage."

"But if we make out, I might get an ass kicking," he says lightly. "It would all be very 90s rom-com."

She gives him a cool look. "This is my _life_."

Julian sobers, golden-brown eyes going unusually serious. "You forget, Rachel. I was there after everything went down," he says tightly. "And you were a fucking mess, my dear." He touches her hand to soften the words. "I remember I had to pick you out of bed and throw you in your shower after how many weeks of spiralling? You didn't want to brush your hair, and you didn't want to eat. I had to force anti-depressants down your throat and practically drag you outside of your apartment. I think the only reason you wanted to live is because I put you on stage and let you sing, and dance, and _pretend_, so forgive me if I find a small amount of joy in watching Mr. Puckerman look ill every time I touch you."

Rachel doesn't respond, and she doesn't say a word when he rests his hand on her lower back as they leave.

In the airport they call out his flight and Rachel just sinks deeper into his chest.

Julian hugs her tightly, whispers consoling words into her hair. "Do your physio and hurry back. And before I forget—" he presses a plastic orange bottle into her hand, "a gift from Doctor Higgins."

She tries not to look too relieved when she sees the Adderall label.

Julian gives her a sharp look. "Tell me right now that you're not over doing it, because I've already got to go home to make sure Richard, that brilliant fuck-up co-star of yours is still breathing." He frowns distractedly. "I swear that boy would swallow arsenic if it came in a baggie."

Rachel draws a deep breath and explains to him point-by-point why that accusation is outrageous and insulting and just plain _stupid_.

Julian kisses her to silence and boards his plane before she can start with the statistics.

}{

_She beats on the bathroom door, hands balled furiously. _

"_Open this door!"_

_She hears Santana's giggle, an odd, almost unnatural sound. Puck's voice comes low and unintelligible through the door. _

"_I know what the two of you are doing and you ought to be ashamed of yourselves!"_

_More giggling. And it's not Santana's._

"_Go 'way, Berry. We're busy," Santana shouts back. _

_Rachel's mouth opens but nothing comes out. How _dare_ they? She stomps twice, a wordless growl leaving her mouth. _

"_That is _my_ bathroom you are defiling, Santana Lopez!" _

_She pounds on the door twice as hard, ignoring the pain shooting through her fist._

"_Fuck me. Open the door, San, before she breaks something. Like herself." _

_The bathroom door opens slightly, curls of smoke escaping. A hand shoots out, pulling her in with a violent tug. The door slams shut behind her. _

"_In or out, Berry. You know the rules." Santana sits on the lid of the toilet, pulling one leg up to her chest. _

_The pungent smoke invades her senses. The sickly herb smell almost makes her gag. She waves a hand in front of her face, attempting to clear the air._

_Rachel glares, crossing her arms over her chest. She turns on Puck who's stretched out in their lime green bathtub, an unfortunate reminder of 70's remodelling, wearing only a pair of jeans with the top button undone._

_His lips are pressed tightly together as he struggles not to look at her._

"Really_, Noah?" she asks in exasperation. _

_His eyes dart her way and he can't prevent the laughing cough of smoke that escapes his mouth. He brings the joint up from where it was hiding beside his leg, _

"_Sorry, babe." He smiles slow and wide, hazel eyes shining impishly. "But what's the point of having a shitty-ass apartment that doesn't meet any fire codes with a tiny, unventilated bathroom if you can't hotbox the sucker every now and then?" _

_She makes another strangled sound before taking a few deep calming breaths, which seem to work well. Unusually well, actually. "You should apologise to your lungs! And to the brain cells that died for your negligent proclivities! And to Santana, a guest in our home, who you should be taking care of!"_

"_It's her weed! And she's not a guest; she's a fucking pest!" _

_Rachel brings a hand to her chest. "Noah, that's so…so—" She blinks slowly, trying to remember her train of thought. Santana pats the wide edge of the tub. Rachel sits across from her without thinking. She reaches out to pat Santana's knee. "He's just saying that to sound tough," she whispers conspiratorially. "You're our very favouritest guest. No! You're, like, an honourable member of our household." She beams, thrilled with her realisation. _

_Santana shares a small smirk with Puck over Rachel's shoulder who chimes in with, "How's she honourable, babe? I once saw her give a blow job at a school dance."_

_Santana gives him the evil eye, but it's nothing compared to Rachel's withering glance. "And I once saw you receive one in the teacher's lounge, so don't you talk about Santana like that!" _

_Puck exhales a burst of smoke in Santana's direction, mouthing a silent word. _Bitch_. _

_Santana merely tilts her head, focusing a sly smile on Rachel. She slithers closer, braces one knee on the tiles between Rachel's legs._

_Rachel wets her lips unconsciously. _

_Puck sits forward. "She's off her face. Don't do anything stupid."_

_She touches the shining wetness on Rachel's bottom lip. She feels like she's waited for this forever, Six months in Ohio, another three watching Puck and Rachel be shiny and perfect. Maybe she won't get a real chance. That just means she has fight harder to steal these moments._

"_Tell Puck you want me when you're not high," she orders._

"_I'm not high," Rachel argues with a frown. _

_She bends down, resting her hands behind Rachel's back till their chests are touching and their faces are inches apart._

"_Tell him that you want my hands on you. Tell him how much you liked my tongue and my fingers buried inside you."_

"_But he's my boyfriend."_

_Santana shoots Puck a victorious smile. He's looking at Rachel like he's never seen her before, eyes dark and hungry._

_She raises a brow, knowing Puck will understand what she's asking. _

_He tries to look nonchalant and fails miserably. "'S alright, if I get to watch."_

_She sinks into Rachel's mouth, loses herself almost instantly in the soft lips and clean taste. _

_Rachel's hands flutter around uncertainly, even as she makes a soft sound in the back of her throat._

_Puck grabs her hand, rubs comforting circles above her thumb. Her eyes meet his before fluttering shut as she tilts her head to deepen the kiss. _

_Eventually Santana has to pull away. The heat in her stomach is building into something scary, and if she doesn't stop now she won't ever._

_It only gets worse when Puck tugs Rachel into his lap. He draws teasing shapes on her inner thigh. _

_He stares at Santana thoughtfully._

_It's the last time they get high. _

}{


	7. Chapter 7

}{

_This isn't the first time it's happened, or the second, or even the third, but it is the worst. _

_Santana sits at her desk, twirling slightly on her computer chair, watching Rachel pace across her dorm room floor, seeming to fill up every spare inch of space with that frantic energy. _

_Rachel's ponytail bounces behind her, eyes wild and furious._

_Just watching all that drama makes Santana feel exhausted._

"_I just—" She shakes her head, struggling to find the words. "I don't know _why_."_

"_Because he's Puck." It's like the most obvious thing ever and she doesn't even pretend to think about it. _

_She was just getting into bed when Rachel poured through her bedroom door. She should have been more annoyed, but Rachel looked like she was about to disintegrate. So she, showing more patience than she thought was possible, let Rachel explain in excruciating detail how Puck had been all over some museum attendant. _

"_He had his arms crossed, you know, in that way he thinks makes his biceps look bigger? He _winked_ and touched her shoulder and he may as well have just stripped there and then for all the subtlety he used!_

"_And don't you dare tell me that I'm being a drama queen! I know what he was doing!"_

"_Like I was going to disagree." Yeah she occasionally lives by the bro-code when it comes to Puck, but it's _him _and _flirting_ and she's not a fucking miracle worker. "It didn't mean anything. He was just bored and bitch-teasing to pass time." _

_Rachel's fury evaporates, leaving her weak and close enough to tears to send a spear of fear straight through Santana. _

"_Yes, it meant absolutely nothing to him and he did it anyway, knowing I'd see him, knowing I'd be hurt."_

_Santana sighs. She really wasn't good with crying. _

_Rachel ends up on the end of her bed, head bowed in her hands and crying so loudly Santana has to lock her door so her sorority sisters don't scent weakness._

_She stands above the smaller girl, and rests her hands on Rachel's shoulders to get her attention. _

"_Seriously, Rach, you need to chill the fuck out. I'm so not in the mood to bitch slap your skinny ass if you start hyperventilating or some crap." She grips Rachel tighter, gives her a gentle shake till her tear-flooded eyes finally look up._

_Rachel hiccups and takes a couple heaving breaths. Another deep breath and she can almost talk again._

_She sniffles. "Can you call me skinny again?"_

_Santana rolls her eyes. "Look, it was a shitty move, all right? But you knew what Puck was like before you got together. If it breathes, he's probably going to take a shot at it—for the same reason dogs lick themselves. And yeah, that makes him a total asshole, but he's yours and he knows it."_

_Rachel crawls up the bed, buries her face in Santana's pillows. Her words become soft and muffled. "I know he wouldn't go any further with them, Santana. I do. But I thought he'd stop. I thought if—" _

_Santana raises a brow and doesn't try to hide the cynicism in her words. "What? If you loved him well enough, for long enough, he'd grow up and change? That he'd suddenly stop overcompensating for his insecurities with his man-whore persona?" It almost annoys her—how easily she can see through Rachel; it's just another indicator of how her life revolves around a girl who will never care about her quite enough. _

_But Rachel's fingers curl into her pillow, clutching at it weakly and Santana feels nothing but the usual tug in her chest. _

_She slides in behind her, wrapping one arm below Rachel's breasts and tucking her knees behind Rachel's thighs. _

_If Rachel's naïveté is one of her favourite jokes, she still hates seeing it tarnished. _

_She leans into the warm, fresh scent of Rachel's neck even as delicate fingers slide up and down her arm. _

_There's a brief moment where she considers selling Puck out. Everything seems to have fallen so perfectly into her lap, just waiting to be manipulated in her favour. It would be so easy, too easy, she could even blame it on fate, or God, or—if she was really in a bitch mood—Puck himself._

_She stays silent._

_It could be because Puck is her (badly shorn) other half and fucking him over would say something really shitty about her loyalty. _

_Not that it's ever stopped her before. _

"_We're fuck ups, Rach," she whispers into soft skin. "Puck pulls that crap because he hates being alone, even for a second, and he's shit scared that you'll find something better to care about. Scream at him, hit him—just let him know that what he does matters. Don't pull your imperious act and storm off, 'cause he's too fucking dumb to get it."_

_She doesn't think she's doing the right thing for Puck's sake. _

_Rachel looks over her shoulder, the tiniest hint of a smile playing across her features. "You know Puck and I wouldn't last a week without you, right?"_

"_I know." Santana nearly chokes on the words._

_There's a bitter taste in her mouth that doesn't go away when she swallows._

_She stares at the cracks in her ceiling and let's Rachel's voice flutter across her senses without really hearing any words. _

_The thought crosses her mind that her life is just someone's idea of a sick joke._

_Rachel is crying in her arms because love isn't enough to change Puck._

_And Santana does the right thing over and over again._

_It was enough to change her. _

}{

She doesn't know what brought her here. Probably some misguided sense of guilt she's not sure Puck deserves. The secretary let's her wait in his office.

There are messy drafts strewn around his desk. She rifles through them, but they're all basically carbon copies of the same three-bedroom home.

There's one photo on his desk, only a few inches tall in a plain wood frame.

Beth's smile is wide and beautiful, even with one front tooth missing. Her shiny flaxen hair is in two perfect plaits for her preschool photo.

Every year she'd call Shelby and beg for photos of Beth. Her mother had some strange fear of Puck's parental rights, but Rachel was a true thespian when it came to guilt trips. Puck had never asked, but she watched the way his fingers would trail over the photos, silent and reverent. It had made her so happy to be able to do something that meant so much to him.

Puck walks in, his face as blank as he can make it.

"Hi," she chirps, voice tight with anxiety.

"Hey." His eyes fall to the photo in her hands. His expression turns dark and he pries it gently from her fingers, sitting it back meticulously. "Look, I got stuff to do and—"

"No, I know," she interrupts. "And I'm sorry for interrupting you at work, but this will only take a minute."

Puck gestures for her to continue, more amused than anything.

"I owe you an apology."

There's a second of stunned silence, before her growls, "Well, I don't want shit from you, Rachel. Especially not that."`

Rachel raises her head, face hardening with determination. "Be that as it may, I have to say this, for myself at least."

He edges away from her slightly, unwilling to hear.

She takes a deep breath, trying to remember the words she thought of on the way here. They suddenly seem stupid and feeble. "No matter how…virulent our relationship had become, cheating on you was deceitful and there are no excuses and I am truly sorry."

His murky hazel eyes go huge as he shakes his head in wonder. "_That's_ what you're here for?"

"Yes," she answers, slightly bewildered.

"You're a real piece of fucking work, you know that right?" What she owed him could never be paid in words. Ever. And for her to talk about fucking some loser behind his back, like he cared what she did, it was just _stupid_. Yeah maybe he thought about killing the guy. He remembers the guy breathing down her neck and the pink flush in her cheeks; still thinks about how easy it would have been to drag him into an alley and beat him into unconsciousness.

All he can do is smirk. "Whatever. If that's the conversation you wanna have." He shrugs. "Did you actually fuck him?"

She doesn't think answering that would make any difference.

"Fuck me! You really did it, didn't you?" He lets out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "I always thought that I might have gotten something wrong. Or wished I did. I told myself you were better than that."

Rachel can only shake her head, refusing to cry.

"If you were just drunk and needed a quick fuck, I think I could have forgiven it." Puck nods with a bitter smirk. "But it wasn't about the sex, was it? It was always about that fucking stage!" He slams his palm onto the desk, wood shuddering violently. Rachel flinches.

He hates that stage more than fucking anything. It stole Rachel. It stole his family. It stole his life.

He takes two steps forward and grabs her chin between two aching fingers. He tilts her face up, forcing their eyes to meet. His are so very angry; it makes Rachel feel as dirty on the outside as she does on the inside. "Tell me, Rachel, was it worth it? When you were letting some old playwright fuck you like the cheap lay you are, did you see all those pretty stars you love so much?"

Rachel swallows the thickness in her throat and pulls forth that righteous indignation that is always lying just below the surface. She yanks her chin from his grip and shoves his chest as hard as she can, then twice more for good effect till he was forced up against the desk. "Don't you talk to me like that, Noah Puckerman! You don't know a damn thing about me and you never cared enough to learn! You stopped looking at me! You stopped caring! You can stand there and hate me all you want, but I got what I wanted, didn't I?"

Puck just looks disgusted.

"You had dreams too! Where are they now, huh?" she admonishes, grabbing sketches from his desk and hurling them at his face.

Puck blinks to protect his eyes as his newest drafts sink to the floor. He sits on his desk as calmly as he can manage. He has to stay calm. _Has to_. If he can't, he'll shake the truth out of her and he won't stop. "That was your best performance yet, Berry."

Rachel turns and walks out of his office before one more cruel word breaks her. Still, she hears the last words he calls out: "See, if you had of held out just a little longer you mighta got those big fucking dreams even without whoring yourself out."

She's shaking so badly she can barely open her car door.

Giant sobs wrack her body, leaving her slumped against her window, fingers clawing at the steering wheel.

In that moment she hates Puck more than she's ever hated anyone in her life. She hates him for making her feel this way. She hates him for all the truths he knows.

Most of all, she hates him for being able to hate her so very much.

(Because the _real_ truth is she could never hate him. Not like that.)

It takes ten minutes before she can control herself enough to drive away.

}{

Rachel opens the door with her head dipped and her fingers trembling around the edge of the wood.

"You look like shit," Santana informs her in greeting.

Rachel's mascara is smudged. Red, raw looking eyes offer more proof of tears.

"I'm afraid I have things to do today."

Santana raises a brow. "Yeah, what?"

Rachel's look turns venomous and Santana barges through the door.

She pulls Rachel's face in for a closer inspection. "Are you _high_?"

Rachel slaps her hand away, eyes narrowing further. "I most certainly am not. And I resent that accusation!"

"Yeah? Well, your tennis ball-sized pupils say otherwise."

Rachel spins on her heel.

Santana slinks behind her on their way to the bedroom, looking around the house curiously. She falls into Rachel's bed, like it never crossed her mind that she wouldn't be welcome.

Rachel fishes out a script so Santana won't know she planned on spending her day going over the comments on her Myspace page.

"Where's Polanski?"

"He has to work." Her eyes snap to Santana. "And his name is _Julian_."

Santana's nose crinkles in faux thoughtfulness, her smirk still firmly in place. "Yeah…I'm gonna call him Polanski."

Rachel turns away with a huff and spends an hour rehearsing a play she could recite backwards.

They had to make small changes in the script because the Broadway version was twenty minutes shorter than the Chicago one, but she'd memorized them all in a week. Still, it felt good to fall back into her familiar role—safe, easy.

Even better with Santana painting her toenails three feet away.

The final note of her solo dies on her lips and there's nothing but her sunny bedroom and a silence so loud her chest aches with emptiness.

She doesn't even want to think about what she'd do for a single round of applause, just for a few seconds of thunderous adulation. The list of things she _wouldn't_ do is empty and rather sad.

Santana looks on with a blank expression, though her eyes are strangely troubled.

"Do you really need to sleep with him to get the part? I mean you can actually sing, so what the fucks the point?"

Rachel puts her script away, slamming her drawer slightly too hard. The words are a little too close to the ones she heard earlier. And she won't—no—_can't _think about that now. "You don't know anything about it, Santana, so just stop."

Santana draws a deep breath. She doesn't want to fight and she doesn't want to push Rachel away, but she can't seem to stop. Puck had looked like he was about to commit a capital offence when he'd seen them. She's not entirely sure what the burning in her veins meant, but it was nothing good. "I know that Polanski has a wife and kid and homewrecking was never really your kink, so you must be getting something else out of it."

"Yes, Santana. I get someone who stays," she bites back.

Santana goes rigid, the words hitting exactly as they were intended. "So fucking Polanski for a few pats on the back is enough for you now?"

"So fucking Puck just because you can is enough for _you_ now?"

Santana's not sure whether she's more shocked that Rachel swore or that she guessed. It's not like her and Puck were some secret and it's not like it's anything more the same old fuck-buddy routine, but Rachel had so far avoided any direct reference to Puck's current activities.

She's tells herself she's not doing anything wrong. She's not. She shouldn't feel this bad. Something in Rachel's eyes breaks and her justifications fall short.

"Rach—"

Rachel merely closes her eyes at having her suspicions confirmed. "Don't. _Please_. I just don't want to know."

She calls Richard, who has played opposite her for the entire run of _Glory_. Just hearing his voice reminds her of being on stage, her adoring fans littering the theatre.

For a brief second she's not so jealous her whole body hurts.

Richard's a self-absorbed narcissist, gorgeous enough to make it understandable and talented enough that few people make an issue of it.

He would have been a Broadway caricature, if not for his two young daughters that played quietly backstage on days when their mother was at work and they couldn't find a baby sitter. She'd never asked, but guessed he must have been sixteen when the eldest was born.

If Richard had one redeeming factor, apart from his talent, it was the way he looked at those girls.

She used to play with them during her breaks. Sardines was their favourite game when they could rope a few of the stagehands into a round or two. Always she found Ally and Jess first (her sixth sense was ever useful). Then she'd have to wrap her hands over their eyes so they wouldn't scream when the next person came along.

She hasn't played in a long time.

Looking at them hurt too much, made her think of things she'd rather forget.

While she and Richard were never exactly friends (the words "neurotic bitch" got thrown around a lot in their first months on stage) he disliked her understudy even more.

She murmurs sweet words of sympathy over the phone and lets him complain about Amelia "Whoreface" Buxton and the changes she's been trying to make to their scenes. She spends thirty minutes reminding him how well they work together and pandering to his ego. A few of her more indulgent compliments almost make her cringe, but Richard already believes he sounds like the lovechild of Michael Cerveris and Hugo Panaro, so he doesn't think twice when it's confirmed by someone else.

By the time their call ends he's forgotten that he thinks she's uptight and grating and begs her to come back before he hangs himself by Amelia's bottle-blonde tresses.

A pleased smile lights her face.

She knows Richard will make things harder where he can. He always has.

This time it will work in her favour.

They'd have to hesitate before opening a show with one untried (and subpar) lead, and another a sullen jerk.

Santana watches it all, caught between worried and impressed. "Nice machinations, Berry. Machiavelli would be proud."

Rachel responds with a prim smile. "Thank you, Santana."

She's convinced herself that she has no right to be angry. Her emotions don't really fall for her logic, but it's a start.

"So banging the boss doesn't get you a free pass?"

Rachel's lips thin. "Julian will help, but I wouldn't expect or want him to jeopardize his career for me."

Julian was as ambitious as she was—maybe more so—and she's not sure she'd risk her place in the spotlight for anyone, so how can she expect him to?

"I get it," Santana says, lips twisting knowingly. "You're his lead, until you're too much of an inconvenience—kind of how you're his girlfriend, until his wife comes home."

Rachel's hands curl into fists and she can almost feel her blood pressure skyrocket in fury. She knows Santana's bluntness is more a personality quirk than an attempt to be deliberately cruel, but it doesn't calm her one bit. It feels like an argument that's been waiting to happen, that's been dodged just one time too many.

"You've been in my life for two seconds, Santana, so don't think you have the right to sit there and judge me."

The barely sane look in Rachel's eyes enough of a warning.

"No judgement, Berry. I'm merely pointing out that you're getting the shitty end of the deal."

"That is a rather bold accusation coming from you." Rachel laughs, a tiny bitter sound. "I'm just playing the hand I was dealt, Santana. Don't forget that."

Santana jumps from the bed, closing the distance between them. "So you're blaming your fuck ups on me?"

She's not entirely sure she doesn't blame herself, but that's not really the point.

Rachel doesn't back away. "Yes! No! I don't know, alright?" she cries. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip with bruising force. Santana's standing inches away, liquid black eyes huge and unreadable, and Rachel wants to stop spewing out things better left unsaid, but that's not something she's ever been able to control. "That's not what I mean. I just meant—" she pauses, shaking her head, "I meant that I made one mistake, which I 'm so sorry for and no matter what was going on between me and Noah, attempting to cheat on him was the stupidest thing I've ever done."

"_Attempting_?" Santana asks, but Rachel cuts her off with a pointed stare.

"But you shouldn't have left me! It was _one_ mistake. You were my best friend, not just Noah's and I needed you so much."

Rachel's hands wrap around her stomach, that odd look in her eyes, like she's trying to hold herself together again. Santana wants to help. She thinks about hugging the smaller girl, but doubts Rachel would let her.

She takes Rachel's hand, surprised when the other girl doesn't pull away, and leads her to the bed.

"You can't actually think I care that much about letting some lame blond ex-Tisch kid flop around on top of you?" Santana's not sure if it's a question or not.

Maybe she was a little jealous—after all, she would have been perfectly open to helping Rachel get her horizontal revenge—but some brief, obviously unfulfilling, fling was hardly worth losing sleep over. Even if Rachel had been her girlfriend, not Puck's, she's not entirely sure it would have been worth throwing everything away for.

Rachel goes unnaturally still. "I don't understand," she whispers.

This is the very moment Santana's been dreading. She doesn't want to talk about it, or question it. It's too hard and too sore. "Fuck, Rach. You know Puck had his issues with Quinn…with Beth. He thought you chose your career over him and…you know." She doesn't think Rachel's still breathing, so she rushes on, "And I don't blame you, okay? You did what you had to. But you made your choice and Puck couldn't handle it. He fell apart. He was—fuck—I'm not even sure if he was better drunk and incoherent or sober and broken—"

Rachel bolts upright.

Santana's left blinking in surprise as the other girl darts away. "Rach?"

"I think maybe you should leave."

Santana's brows furrow. "Um, no?"

Then Rachel's there, dragging her by her wrist and pushing her out her bedroom door. "I don't feel well. I'll call you later, San."

She's not lying. She waits till she hears footsteps disappear down the stairs.

With slow, steady steps, she enters her en suite and kneels in front of her toilet.

She's lucky enough to have an antidepressant that doubles as an antiemetic handy. She swallows four and is incredibly grateful for the next twelve hours of unconsciousness.

}{

_Santana had counted down the days of finals and she sure as fuck wasn't staying in New York just because Rachel had her first lead to rehearse and Puck had finally found a design school willing to accept his deadbeat ass._

_She had coffee with Quinn and shopping sprees with Brittany. She slept in till midday while her mother washed her clothes and cleaned her room. She even had her first home cooked meal (that wasn't vegan) in months._

_It should have been perfect—would have, if it wasn't all tight and scratchy, like an ill-fitting sweater. Quinn was still a fucking monster. Funny as hell and sharp as glass, but it wasn't something she could admire anymore. Brittany was still Brittany, and Santana couldn't ever stop loving her, wouldn't, even if she could, but when she looked at her oldest friend, there were phantom pains—an ache for things that didn't exist anymore._

_One day—not this one—she'll wonder what would have happened if she had spent her vacation where she belonged, in the life she'd built, not the one she'd left._

_It all breaks with one phone call that's already too late. _

_Rachel's cell crackles noisily and for an idle second she wonders why Rachel sounds so far away._

_She shouldn't _hear_ distance, should she?_

"'_Sup buttercup?"_

_She smothers her lips with gloss; she's expecting a million run-on sentences and minutes to kill. It usually takes Rachel half a dictionary to say "nothing"._

_There's an uncomfortable pause where Rachel doesn't say anything and Santana can't. _

"Rachel_?" she questions, nonplussed. _

"_Nothing."_

"_Then what's with the weirdness?"_

"_I don't know," Rachel hesitates, fiddles with a nub of loose thread on her skirt, "nothing, I guess." _

_There's the edge of warning in Santana's mind that tells her Rachel shouldn't _sound_ tiny. Not now, not a state a way, not even if it's true. "Is everything okay?_

"_No—I mean, yes. Everything's fine. Nothing's wrong. I just wanted to call." _

_Santana can picture it—straight white teeth, pretty lips pulled impossibly tight into a smile too big and too false._

"_Yeah?" _

"_Yes." There's another long silence that shouldn't exist in a phone call with Rachel Berry. Then her voice comes again, small and wistful. "I miss you. You'll be home soon, right Santana?" _

_She still has weeks of vacation left. _

"_Soon enough," she promises. _

_She takes the next available flight, but it still feels like a broken promise. _

}{


End file.
